Quis Separabit?
by Queen Maria
Summary: Christine is given the gift of a second chance, and now fights to stay on this divergent path. But fate is difficult to control, even with a love that reorders time. When elements of the past bleed into her present, they put the love she and Erik have fought for in jeopardy.
1. Part I: I Am Only One

**Hello! This is an idea which sort of jumped into my head a little while back. Don't know how good it actually is, but I hope someone gets enjoyment out of it!**

**While this may actually turn some people off, we are going in with the assumption that LND did happen. But wait! Not really**!

Cold and burning heat. They make up my being. The cold freezes, making my bones feel as though they have been iced over. There must be frost permeating from my body. I cannot feel my feet any longer. My fingers are almost numb, but my arms are still mine. They are currently wrapped around the source of heat.

Said heat source is trembling; its arms, so strong and protecting, are clutching me against it, as if trying to dispel the cold and share its warm. There is no transfer. I focus my eyes on its face.

Stark white as ever. But the other side has lost its pallidity. It has been basked in light over the decade, giving color to skin once bleached by the cellars. It warmed my heart at that first reunion, to see evidence of the change. My stony angel, lifted up into the sunlight.

But the other side…That wretched white, that ever-present obstacle. How I loathe it! I never wish to see it again! But the cold is still creeping, and it may very well be the last thing I see.

_No._

I whimper slightly, and he gazes down my body quickly, his mouth parting in silent question. His eyes meet mine once more, tears dripping down to my cheeks and blending with mine. I let go of his right arm, bringing my left hand up to cup his neck. His pulse was erratic and uneven, the opposite of my own steadily slowing beat. His left arm encircled me closer, his right tightened on my waist.

My words are breathed to him, my plea no stronger than a wisp of wind. But he heard me nonetheless. I truly believe I could have called to him from France and he would have heard me.

He pulls me against him, my body molding to his. His lips, oh! His lips! I've needed them! I need him! I will always need him! Please, don't let me go!

Suddenly something hard and rough-edged is scraping my upper lip. I wince away as he pulls back, shame and embarrassment coming into his eyes. I purse my lips slightly, wanting his again.

It takes only a small flick of my wrist. The porcelain clatters to the ground surrounding us.

His eyes widen, a shocked breath escaping his mouth. But I don't give him time to pull away further, to be angry.

"I've made a habit of that." I breathe the words on his lips before taking them once more.

I feel and hear his moan, a sob that he attempts to hold back. I wipe away a tear that has fallen over his ravaged right cheek, the cheek I have cupped lightly.

My lips part slightly, moving slowly across his. I feel his shaky breathing; his whole torso is shuddering, violently at times.

My arms are cold. They are like my legs, my feet… my torso. The weakness, the cold is winning. If not for my lips, still pressing against his, I would be still.

My arms have fallen away from him, but he only clutches me closer. _Don't let me go. Oh, please, please, my love, let me die like this. In your arms, hearing your heartbeat. Your heartbeat… You have never written anything as beautiful as that_…

I see only gray, a hazy shade that seems to morph and change around me. But I can still feel his lips, his breath fanning my face, his tears. I can still hear him when he gasps quietly, and I could have sworn I felt him jostle me slightly. But I cannot move my lips, cannot tell him to continue kissing me.

"No." _Oh, my sweet love…_

"No! Christine! Please, no." _I am sorry, angel, so sorry._

"Wake up!" I think he is whispering still. He sounds so scared, as if any loud noise should make it official that I am beyond calling, beyond his summons.

"Wake up. Wake up. Do-do not leave me here. You cannot go, not yet," I hear a sob. "Not n-now."

_Kiss me goodbye, my angel. Let that be my last memory..._

My wish is only half granted. I feel his lips once more, but in quick, pressing movements.

"No." His lips. "No." His lips once more. "No!" And so he continues, for a few more.

But my last memory is not of his lips on mine. I hear him, right near my right ear, as he screams. His face is buried against my neck, I am sure. But I cannot feel him any longer. I can only hear his sob, which sounds as though it were torn from his soul.

He tears my soul with it.

IIIIIII

I cannot feel him any longer. I want to reach out my arms again, to try to cling to him. _No. Please! Not yet! Just a bit longer! I need you!_

There is no reply. There is only gray, swirling about me.

I realize with a shock that it truly is too late. I must in fact be dead, because my body is no more. I feel no cold, nor do I feel pain. I am simply myself, existing. I hear something, someone. There is singing, beautiful singing. The most beautiful voice in eternity. I know and love it well.

Is this to be my heaven, then? To float in this state and hear his voice? Or is it my hell? To hear him, believe he is near, but be unable to touch him, talk with him, sing with him? I cannot decide whether to weep from joy or despair.

As I ponder this, his voice fades slightly, and fear and dread grip my soul.

"No!" My voice echoes in this abyss. "No! Stay with me! Do not leave me again!" The voice does not fade any further, but it does not return to its former volume.

"Please. Please! I will do anything! Only do not abandon me again! Stay with me! I cannot bear to be without you any longer…" My voice fades, and I try to focus only on his voice.

"Why?" The question echoes all around me and my heart leaps. This voice is not my own, or his. But I could still recall it, even in death.

"F-Father?"


	2. Father's Inquiry

**AN: Hello any readers I might have. Thank you to .Alice for her very kind review! I hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

Her question seems to hang around her, echoing. She tried to look around, to locate the speaker she loved so well. But there is still nothing but grey, nothing but the haze. She felt like weeping, and in her heart she was, though she had no body to show for it.

"Father? Please, are you here? Please, Father! Where are you?" Her plea echoes, as if traveling some great distance.

"Why, Christine?"

"Father, I do not… Why what?"

She thought she heard a sigh, a sigh of such sadness. She had heard it before, when her mother was spoken of… when her father had been near death.

"Why did you reject your Angel?" His words were a fresh knife into her heart.

"I didn't-"

"You asked for him, again and again. I promised you I would send him. But then when I did, when I finally brought you to him and him to you, you shunned him. Tell me why, my dearest."

She could not respond for some time. Her soul was bleeding to replace her tears.

"I-I was weak! I was weak and selfish and foolish! Young and naïve! I didn't understand! I have no excuse! I did not… did not understand! I never meant to cause such pain! I was scared and lonely and confused. I could not stay with him, not then! Not when I was so torn, when loving me was destroying him! I could not!"

She felt drained, so drained and weak. She wished she could find rest somewhere. Yes, go to her eternal rest…

"Not quite yet, dear."

She wanted to see him, wanted to run into his arms once more.

"Father, please, can you not show yourself to me? Please, Father!"

"I cannot, my Christine. Not yet. I had not hoped to see you again so soon. But it seems things have gone wrong. And a further explanation from you is needed."

"Wha-what do you mean? What more must I say?"

"You claim you could not stay with him, my child. And yet you went back. That is another action for which you need to answer."

She stared out, wishing she could vanish into nonexistence. Her shame, her pain, her crimes, let them all be undone. Wouldn't the world be better, to have never dealt with the fickle Christine Daae?

"You cannot think in such a way. You existed, you lived, you brought joy and pain, as every other human has done, and will continue to do. Now please, Christine. Answer the question. Tell me and yourself the truth."

She felt as if suddenly her voice had returned in full force, and anger at herself and for these torturing questions exploded.

"I went back because I loved him! I loved him! I could not bear the thought of living without him! Of going on as if he'd never been part of my life, part of me! I had to find him, even though I did not understand it. I just… I just needed him."

She paused, realizing her words. There should be no past tense involved.

"I love him. I still cannot stand to be away from him. I will always need him. He and my son. Our son. They are everything to me. And I will never forgive myself."

No reply came this time.

"Well, Father? Is that it? Does that sate your curiosity? I cannot be clearer." She realized she sounded harsh, and spoke again, softer, as she had when he lay dying.

"I would give anything to change what I have done, Father. To take back all the pain I have caused; to him, to Raoul, to Gustave, Meg…" She halted, the image of Meg, screaming and pointing the gun at her son, at her, flashing before her eyes. Meg had looked so deranged, so undone. Was there anyone in her life she had not hurt?

"What do you regret most, child?"

She knew. The answer was immediate. The day she had ruined everything. If she could undo that, everything would be undone.

"The moment I pulled away his mask. When I screamed in fear of his rage. When I could not give him the reassurance he needed, that would have been so easy to give. If I could change that… I would give anything to change that."

"Very well."

**Hmmm?**


	3. Parental Love

**Hello!… I don't really have anything else to say…**

**Here ya go!**

His response, so calm and collected, startled her. "Very well?" Was that all? Did he merely seek to torment her?

"Sweetheart, I am loathe to cause you pain, but it was necessary. A bit of convincing was needed on your part. After all, this sort of situation is incredibly rare, and my word alone was not enough. They wanted to see your commitment."

Her commitment?

"Father, I do not understand. What are you talking about? What situation…" She would swear to God she heard him chuckle. The sound sent her back twenty years.

"I shall try my best to explain it to you, dear. But first, I need to ask you something." He paused, and she looked about once more.

_ I must stop doing that. There is nothing to see._

"Those operas that you would perform, the stories of tragic love and separation that pull at the heartstrings of the audience, do they not stir your soul? Make you believe in true love?"

"Of course they do. I have always detested the endings of operas. Romeo and Juliet, Aida, they are so bittersweet. To have found your soul mate and be pulled from them… there is no fate worse than that." _I know it well._

"Did they not make mistakes that led to that separation? Romeo killed Tybalt in a vengeful rage, people put their faith in the wrong people, did not believe in each other. They spun webs of deceit around those they cared about. Was not the following separation a swift form a justice? To be denied what you love for your crimes?" His words were like knives to her.

"There is no worse hell, Father, than being denied the presence of the one you love most. Your body may continue to function, your heart to beat, but your soul will become comatose." She stopped, remembering. "Unless something can wake you."

"Such as the love a mother has for her child?"

"Exactly," she whispered.

"And if the child was Raoul's?"

Indignation returned.

"I love my son! I do not care if he was Raoul's or my Angel's! But having him as he is, I would not change him for the world! My only regret is allowing Raoul to treat him so! Gustave committed no crime in existing, and did not deserve the scorn which should have been directed solely at me!"

"Did you stand up for your son?"

"Every moment that I could! Ten years, and I tried! I tried to make up for the love Raoul wouldn't give him, tried to shelter him from his habits." She felt that urge to sob again. "And I tried to help him. With his studies, with his love of music, with his mind…"

"And what of Raoul? Did you not take care of him? Did you not try to help him as he sank deeper into that darkness?"

She thought of it, of Raoul's slow yet increasingly rapid descent into the drunk and abuser he now was. She thought of every time he'd struck out at her, every time he'd slammed a door, cursed and raved… and every time she'd begged him not to go out; to sit with them, as a family. It had been five years before the efforts started to give out. And then Coney Island…

"I tried. Lord knows, I tried. I begged, I screamed, I cried! I tried to make him happy! I wanted him to be happy! And I will never forgive myself for failing!"

"After everything that he has done to you, and to your son, a boy he believed to be his own, do you truly feel guilty for not giving him happiness?"

"If I had been the wife he wanted, the wife he needed, then he would never have become… so lost."

"I told you she was good. You must see it now?" Christine started.

"Father?"

"Apologies again, dear. I wasn't talking to you."

She imagined she would've been blinking stupidly, had she been able.

"You see, you have been testifying just now, honey. I spoke on your behalf, as did your Mother. But your testimony was the most important."

"Testimony? Father, please! What is going on? Why can I not see you? Where are we? I do not understand!" And she very much detested feeling like a child once more.

"We are safe, dear. As to where we are… that is more complicated. But where we will be is soon to be determined. Christine, the time has come for you to choose once more. But now, I believe this will be the last time the option is presented to you. You are fortunate, dear daughter. Almost all people must live with their choices as they make them, and are unable to correct their mistakes. You, on the other hand, have been presented with the same choice twice. And yet each time, there were circumstances that you did not understand. Before we go any further, I must inform you of them."

She heard him sigh, as if loathe to reveal what he knew.

"Your Angel has ever been clever, and he has used his wit as a weapon once again."

"Are you referring to luring me to Coney?"

"Not quite, but you are close. He had conspired to keep you here, especially once he discovered that Gustave was actually his." He paused, and she sensed his small smile. His grandson, his name. "He sought Raoul out while he was in a drunk and miserable state. He antagonized and made a bet with him." Sick dread crept into her being.

"What did he do to him?" The words were a whisper.

"He appeared before him unmasked, most likely to conjure the fear Raoul must've felt in the cellars ten years ago. He provoked him concerning your devotion, and," another pause, "he made him question Gustave's paternity."

Anger erupted.

"What _bet_ did they make, exactly?"

She felt ill. How could he? How _could_ he? All those things they'd said to her before the performance; the begging, the sweet words. For a bet? As if she had no choice in the matter?

"Your Angel wagered that if Raoul could convince you to leave with him, to abandon the performance, then he would pay off all his debts. You would be permitted to return to France, free of your burdens. But if he was unsuccessful, if he could not stop you singing, then he would leave you in New York with your Angel. You know the events that followed."

"I sang… Raoul left me, with one note."

"And the question remains, can you forgive your Angel for it? Forgive him for his manipulation once again? After the havoc he wreaked at the Opera, to have tried again, with devastating results, can you forgive him?"

She thought of him, and recalled something more in his eyes as she died. The guilt she had seen, the horror, the pain.

"It hardly matters, Father. Even if I could tell him that he is forgiven for this, nothing would change. He will never forgive himself. And," she wanted to weep for how weak she was with him, how every wrong he committed was absolved to her. "I have to forgive him, because I love him. And he knew that. Truly, I don't think either of us could have endured the separation once again. But now, Gustave… and Meg." Meg.

"Father…" She was scared to ask, scared to learn the truth.

"She was hurt, dear. She somehow got it into her head that as the new star of the Phantom's show, replacing you as the star of his creations, she could replace you in every aspect of his life." He did not go on.

"She loved him?" The idea seemed foreign, and she immediately realized how childish she sounded. Was it so absurd that someone else could love him? That someone else could see the beauty and wonder of him?

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that, but she wanted to try, I believe. More than anything, she wanted his praise. She wanted to be told that she was noticed, that she didn't follow him for nothing, did not lose herself in that dark world only to be disregarded. More than love, I think she wanted companionship. She had her mother, that is true, but unfortunately, the love of a parent cannot fill one's heart entirely. And living for years without companionship, that is a tale we are familiar with, is it not?"

Living alone, existing alone. Her, following her father's death. Her Angel, for his entire life. And Meg.

"I am so angry at her, Father. So angry for what she has done. Taking me from my son, forcing him to grow up without his mother, separating my Angel and me, for.. for…" She couldn't say the deed out loud. _For taking me away from the world before I was ready._

"But she is still Meg! My Meg! My sister! And I was with her for all those years, and I couldn't see the change in her at Coney. Couldn't see that she was suffering so badly! I cannot hate her, cannot bring myself to! And part of me aches to forgive her! Forgive her for what she's done, and tell her that she can still move on. She would not be the first to do so! But," she saw her angel's anguished face and her son's terror as she lay broken, unable to comfort either, "I don't know if I _can_."

Buquet, Piangi. Perhaps she had not forgiven him for them, but she'd somehow moved beyond them, and those murders were far less justified.

But Meg had done more than just take her life. She had traumatized her son, threatened to drown him, and made him watch his mother take a bullet in her side. How could she forgive her for _that_?

"Christine, dear Christine. You will be given the chance to rectify all of this."

"What?" He did not answer. "Father what do you mean?"

The gray mists shifted further, spiraling and whirling around her. The wind whipped through her, freezing her.

"You can change everything, Christine. You are wiser now, and have come so far. You are not a child anymore, sweetheart. What you choose to do with this knowledge is up to you."

The wind was whipping around her, sending chills throughout and stinging. She felt as though she were falling.

"I don't understand!"

"Dearest, this time, live your life so you will not be able to regret. Repair what went wrong, and undo all the hurt and pain. It has always been within you. And I believe you've found that strength, the strength you lacked before. Good luck, angel."

"Father!"

"I love you, sweetheart. And remember, your Angel of Music was never the only one watching over you."

His voice faded, and she knew he was gone.

Panic rose fast and she screamed as she continued to plummet into an unknown abyss.

IIIII

Quite suddenly, she seemed to jerk to a halt. The mist was no longer swirling, but seemed to be parting in the center before her, pulling away like a curtain. She peered through it as the image it revealed became clearer and she watched, dumbstruck, as she slept in a bed, curled up below the Opera while her Angel played his piano in a silk dress robe and hat.

And when the young girl rose, blinking and looking around, she felt as if she'd been punched in her stomach. This was _that_ early morning, _that_ moment, and now…

The girl was walking quietly over to the man, grinning mischievously as she snuck up behind him.

The elder Christine shook her head, only to realize she once more seemed to have a head to shake. She gasped and looked down, seeing her own body as it had been ten years ago, as it had been that very morning.

_Who was that shape in the shadow? Whose is the face in the mask?_

Her head whipped up again as the girl closed in, her hand starting to creep out.

"_No_." She whimpered to the room. Neither reacted.

"_No! Leave him alone! Don't do it! Please, just leave him alone! He's been so kind, so wonderful, don't-"_

"AHH! DAMN YOU!"

**AN: Chapter 3= Using Gustave Daae to try and interpret the events of LND. And we're FINALLY at the real plot!**


	4. The Altered Reality

Hello! I hope you all have the wonderful weather I do! Sunny and breezy in December. Hello out of place t-shirts.

Christine closed her eyes against the screams that followed; the insults, the cowering, the self-loathing. She felt her body shaking from her despair, tears falling from her eyes at his rage. She had sunk to the floor, leaning on her side, balanced on her hands. Why must she be tortured so? Must her regret stay with her for all eternity? This _is_ hell!

"_Fear can turn to love, you'll learn_..."

She bit her lip, trying to gain control of herself. What use would such tears be now, when the damage was done? His trust destroyed, his shame exposed, her innocence lost. She opened her eyes, dreading to see herself sprawled on the floor, ready to return his mask and further destroy his hope. He would be crawling not far from her, begging her to accept him. She gasped once her eyes opened.

She did not see them together. She saw herself on the ground, his mask only a few inches from her fingers. She blinked rapidly, dispelling any lingering tears, and lifted one hand to wipe her face.

She turned her face to look behind her, and sure enough, he was there, right hand over his cheek, head tilted toward the floor in his despair. She looked at the mask once more.

_How_?

_Live your life so you will not be able to regret. Repair what went wrong, and undo all the hurt and pain_.

She looked up at the ceiling, the words seeming to echo around the cavern, though her companion gave them no heed.

She brought her legs closer, sitting on her side and lifting the mask with both hands. She stared at it for a moment, and then stared blankly in front of her, gazing across the lair.

_This cannot be real_.

But his quiet sobs sounded real against her ears. His porcelain mask felt smooth and hard beneath her fingers. The stones felt cold and biting against her legs. She turned to look at him slowly.

"My God." Christine breathed, so quietly that even he could not understand the words. But he did see her move, and after taking a deep breath, he looked at her hesitantly.

He looked at the mask clutched in her hands, and she realized she had crushed it to her chest. He swallowed, turning his head so his right cheek was hidden from Christine, and extended his right hand.

She knew what he wanted. He wanted the mask returned, and then they would part ways, and hell would break loose.

_Not this time._

She crawled toward him awkwardly, using only her right hand as the left still held his mask. He closed his eyes, when she finally stopped, only inches away from him.

Christine looked at him, trying to think what she should do to convey that she did not care, that his little ingénue was gone. She was replaced by someone far matured beyond the age of her body, but still his Christine.

His eyes flew open and gasped when she laid her right hand carefully on his left shoulder, pushing gently to bring him around to face her. His right hand flew back to his face with a slap, his left eye wide and, dare she think it, terrified.

His eye became only wider as her hand moved from his shoulder to cup his cheek, her thumb lightly wiping away his tears. He jerked away, brow furrowing as he leaned away from her fingers.

She set the mask down on her left side, bringing her other hand up to lay across his at his cheek. He watched her hand approach warily, as if it would bite. When it only settled atop his he winced, flinching instinctively.

Neither moved for a few moments as he allowed her to cup both his cheeks. Christine wiped away the dampness on his right cheek, and he shuddered slightly. He closed his eyes, and brought his left hand to hold her right against him. She smiled when he sighed, seeming to savor this moment of touch so dearly, even as he mistrusted it.

She applied more pressure to his face for a moment, bringing him to face her fully. He opened his eyes, a fresh wet sheen making her heart throb. He watched her warily as she took her left hand away, instead rubbing her knuckles against the back of his hand. He swallowed, confusion coming into his face. She smiled gently. How rare, making the Opera Ghost bewildered!

"This," Christine said in a whisper, lest she disturb the fragile peace she had created, "does not bear so grave a change as you believe."

He frowned; she felt the muscles move beneath her hand, as he pulled his face back slightly.

"Don't answer, just nod yes or no, alright?" She smiled when he nodded hesitantly.

"Are you the one who taught me all these years?"

A nod, small and quick.

"Are you the same one who comforted me, and was a friend to me?"

He thinned his lips before jerking his head in a nod.

"Are you the one who has protected me, watched out for me, kept me company, and filled me with joy with your presence?"

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, before acquiescing with a nod.

"Are you the one who claimed to be my angel of music when I was young, and begged for him to appear?"

She felt his jaw clench beneath her wrist, and he seemed prepared to jerk away until her thumb caressed his cheek again. He opened his eyes again, his expression raw, and nodded.

"Lastly, _mon ange_, besides saying you were a divine being, have you ever lied to me? Deceived me? Done anything that would harm me?"

His emerald eyes locked on Christine's for a moment before he shook his head "no" in four quick jerks of his head. He stopped after a few seconds, tears filling his eyes as tremors shook his face. He closed his eyes once again, lifting his hands to hers. He took her hands away from his cheeks, turning from her as if to crawl away.

He gave a startled cry when she swiftly pulled him into her arms. His left hand gripped her right shoulder, as if to throw her away, and his body jerked and twisted beneath her arms.

It was, she thought, much like the first time they had kiss in this lair. His hands fluttered nervously around her, unable to land for more than a moment. She remained still, wrapped around him, as he steadily relaxed, swallowing nervously with his arms limp at his sides. She brought her left hand to cup the back of his head lowered her right arm to wrap around his waist. His left cheek settled against her neck, though he continued to lean away from her slightly. She started to rub his back in what she hoped was a soothing pattern as they sat in silence for a few long minutes.

Finally, Christine found the words she needed to say.

"Thank you," she whispered fervently, ducking her head to his shoulder. She felt his head angle toward her slightly, and gripped him tighter.

"Thank you. Thank you _so much_ for what you did for me. Thank you for watching over me, for protecting me." Tears filled her eyes, and she took a deep to steady her voice. "Should I live another hundred years, I will _never_ be able to repay you for that kindness."

She rested her head across his shoulder, allowing a few tears to fall away and land on his silk dressing gown.

How wretched of her to have never thanked him before. After years of dedication, had she truly never thanked him after he revealed himself?

A few moments ticked by in silence. Dejected, Christine closed her eyes, bracing herself to pull away.

He chose that moment to tentatively raise his arms slightly. She watch, her breath coming slow, as he left hand disappeared from view to settle against her back. His right followed after a moment, hesitantly leaving his deformed cheek. She smiled slightly, though she assumed he would cover it again once she pulled away from him.

He said nothing, but he held her lightly, and Christine counted that as a victory. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Despite what you may have believed of me, _ange_," she said carefully, "I am not willing to sever our acquaintance over something as trivial as your appearance."

He jerked away from her neck, his hand flying back to his cheek with a slap. He looked at her in shock.

"And any fear I expressed was _not_ directed at your face, but at your rather violent reaction to my curiosity." He looked away from her, shame coloring his features once more.

"I am sorry for that. I never meant to so upset you. Please forgive me for my foolishness. Incidentally," she said, pulling him to face her fully, "you really have no choice but to forgive me, as I would not be able to stand the alternative."

His eyes searched hers, as if looking for some tell-tale sign of deceit. He stared for a long moment, before nodding his head once more. She smiled serenely, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. He swallowed slightly before pulling away, disengaging himself from her embrace.

Her smile fell slightly, but she held his gaze and reached out to hold his left hand, even as he twitched beneath her fingers. He was shaking quite notably, and she closed her eyes. She heard his intake of breath before he spoke quietly, as if more to himself than her.

"H-how? Why? How can you bear – I am – it is…" She silenced him by giving his fingers a squeeze.

"I have been waiting for you to appear before me for years now, _mon ange_." Perhaps not the truth in which he believed it, but it was the truth to her. "You may take any form, so long as you are real and solid beneath my fingers." _And not gone from me after one night_.

He shook his head in disbelief, clamping his hand down harder on his face. She sighed and looked at him pleadingly.

"You did deceive me, that much I know. You pretended to be something you were not. But you did _not_ invent the time we have spent together, nor the wonderful memories I now have. And I believe that you are still that gentle voice who spoke to me, who calmed me and brought smiles and laughter back into my life. So do not presume that I am unable to want you in my life because of appearances," Christine said, never breaking her gaze, "or I shall be insulted at how shallow and vain you think me."

He made no reply, though his expression remained distrustful. He shook his head slightly.

She pressed her lips together, cupping his face with both hands, before starting to fold her fingers around his right hand, pulling it down. He growled, fighting her and starting to pull away. She wrapped her right arm around him again before he moved far, both of them now in an awkward kneeling position as he tried to bend backwards away from her.

"Stop. Stop. You cannot see- repulsive-"

"You have hidden from me for ten years. But I have you now, real beneath my fingers and solid against me. You _will not_ hide from me any longer! I refuse to accept it!" Her fingers pulled and pried at his, pulling single digits away but never his whole hand.

"I hid myself to protect you from this! I will not subject your eyes to it! To this monstrosity-"

"What were you just saying to me? 'See the man behind the monster!' Well, Monsieur, there is no monster here! There is you, and there is me. And I will have no less from you now!"

She leaned forward, lying across him as he bent into a truly uncomfortable position, twisting away as he tried to escape.

"I have already seen it, _ange._ There is no use hiding from me any longer. I am not trying to be kind, or pity you. I just want to see you. Let me see you!"

He shook his head fiercely beneath her hands, anger coloring his features. Keeping his right palm firmly against his deformed cheek, his left hand encircled Christine's right wrist, dragging it away from his body. He set her away from him, keeping one hand trapped while the other tugged on his wrist.

She scowled at him, unwilling to give in.

_Everything happened because of his face! It will not be so this time! I will look him in the face as I speak with him, hold him, kiss him_…

She grimaced at his firm hold, for while it was not painful, it was clearly indomitable.

Pushing against the floor, Christine shoved her body toward him, forcing his arm back.

Unprepared, he could not prevent her from colliding with his torso, only managing to turn his face away from her as her right hand broke free.

She grabbed him from behind, her arm wrapping up to grip around his shoulder. Though she was firmly pressed against him, he continued to struggle, growls ripping from his throat.

Against her will, tears started to fill her eyes. She couldn't let him keep hiding, and they still had so much to discuss.

"Please," she whispered, quickly pressing her face into his shoulder. He stopped struggling, though his body leaned away from her, and she felt his muscles flex. "Please, it changes nothing. It doesn't change how I see you. Do not hide from me any longer." She whispered fiercely, her fingers digging into his fine silk attire. He jerked again, but did not pull away.

"Take down your hand, _ange_. You will never need to hide yourself from me."

She felt his shaky intake of breath ripple through him.

"You speak so bravely, as if you have aged so much. I did not realize it, despite all my time spent with you. When did you become so strong, so willful?" he whispered.

She smiled softly, pulling back to gaze into his eyes. The emerald pools were trouble and bloodshot.

"I am myself, and if you consider me strong, so be it. Only let me see you as you are, with no more masks or deceptions between us. Let me see all of you…" she whispered as she pulled gently against his hand, relieved when slowly but surely he allowed her to tug it away. He closed his eyes, his head slumping forward in defeat. She pulled away to kneel next to him, her right hand leaving his shoulder.

His scars were, of course, as she remembered them. She had learned their texture long ago, but wanted to feel them again, to show him she was unafraid.

He gasped when her fingers gently caressed his scars, her knuckles brushing against the bulging skin, the mangled flesh. He jerked away from her, disbelief and distrust evident on his face again. His breathing was shallow and quick, and his eyebrows were narrowed

Slowly, Christine brought her left hand up before his face. He watched her fingers again, wincing away only slightly when the pads lightly brushed his cheek and jawline.

She avoided his upper lip, bloated and pulled as it was. She had no desire to frighten him further. It was far too soon, she realized, to seek out his lips even with only her fingers.

So Christine carefully brushed along the twists and folds of his right cheek for a few moments.

The man who was her angel looked at her helplessly. He looked lost, as if he could not process an appropriate reaction.

Christine sighed, but smiled lightly before rising to her feet once more. He watched her with a blank expression, looking at her now extended hand.

"As much as I would love to remain here with you, I fear those up above will start to wonder about me."

He eyed her hand doubtfully for a moment, before gingerly placing his own in it and rising.

"Indeed, we must return. By now those fools who run my theater will be missing you."

Bad? Good? Shamelessly plugging in original lyrics/lines? Let me know!


	5. A Long Overdue Introduction

**Hello! Thank you to the kind reviews I have received! I really appreciate them! I hope everyone reading continues to enjoy the story! And I also wanted to let people know that they can make suggestions, via review/pm/whatever. This is a rather open story, as we are going into previous plot with new circumstances. Also, I failed to mention this before, but the rating on this is highly subject to change. And by change I mean increase.**

The journey to return to the surface was, as it had been the first time, spent in silence. This silence, however, was not riddled with fear, apprehension, and despair. It was almost warm, though not entirely light hearted.

Christine's left hand was securely held in his right as she allowed him to lead her. He did not look back at her, but occasionally she felt his grasp tighten momentarily, as if to reassure himself that she was still there. She would respond in kind, a slight twitch of her fingers. _I am here. I will never leave your side again._

When they reached her mirror, he opened it silently, and stepped to the side, making a sweeping gesture with his arm for her passage. She giggled slightly, to which he raised an eyebrow. She walked forward, but did not relinquish his hand. Standing in the dim light of her dressing room, she took his other hand in hers, trying to gaze into his eyes.

Their endless green pools did not waver, and she suddenly felt like the shy, eighteen year old girl she once was. She blushed and looked down, subconsciously tracing the top of his hands with her thumbs. Gathering her courage, she quietly asked,

"When will I see you again?" Her head remained titled, though her eyes crept back to his face.

He attempted to keep a straight face, but she did not miss the softening of his eyes. He bowed his head before replying, fixing on their hands as she had.

"Tonight," he replied quietly. "Tonight after the performance. I will come to you here once more," he paused and looked her in the face. "If you would like."

"I would," she answered, giving his hands a slight squeeze. "I can think of nothing better. But I have a condition, Monsieur Angel." Her eyes glittered, and his brow furrowed.

"What condition might that be?"

"I would know the name of the man who seeks to enter my dressing room after a show. I cannot permit strangers in, after all." She bit her lip for a moment, before chastising herself. _For God's sake, I am an adult! My mind should not recede even though my body has_!

She felt him jerk, as if ready to pull away. She looked down again, focusing her gaze on his gloved fingers.

"You must have a name. You are real and solid in my hands. I cannot continue to address you as a fictitious character." She looked him full in the face, taking a deliberate step toward him. He swallowed notably, body leaning backwards.

"You are developing a rather peculiar habit of invading my personal space, Mademoiselle Daae."

"You did not seem to mind being close to me as you sang to me. And I have no intention of allowing you to separate us by guises again. Tell me your _name_." She brought there joined hands upward, her plea seeming to shake him. He stared for a moment before turning to look into the room.

"Erik." She barely heard it, he said it so breathlessly.

"Erik?" She looked at his masked profile, searching for some reaction.

He gave none.

"Very well then. I am Christine Daae. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Erik." She took away her right hand to take up her skirt to curtsy. He looked at her then, a perturbed look on his face. His eyes were searching hers, but with what question, she could not tell. She held her left hand out before him, arching it off his own fingers. His brow furrowed once more.

"I believe this greeting has been far too long denied, sir. Will you not return my sentiment?" She raised both eyebrows at him teasingly, trying not to falter under his stare.

Slowly, far too slowly, his left hand turned under hers, allowing his fingers to catch her own. He raised her hand carefully, all the while staring at her face, gauging her reaction. He found nothing besides her gentle smile.

"The pleasure is entirely my own, Mademoiselle." And he pressed his lips fleetingly, the barest of touches, to her hand.

She felt like she must be glowing in her happiness, to feel his lips once more, even if only on her hand. He moved to take his hand away, and suddenly she could not bear the thought of parting from him just yet.

"Stay with me." His eyes grew wide.

"You needn't go yet. Stay with me here, in the dressing room. We may practice scales, if nothing else. Only do not rob me of your company quite yet." _Not before we've had a chance to talk._

He stood stock still for long, horrible moments, and she was terrified he would deny her.

"I have business I must accomplish now. Information must be made known, and certain persons in this Opera house need to learn their place." Ice crept down her spine.

"Please tell me you are not going to cause more O.G. mischief."

He looked at her, shocked.

"Mischief? My work is hardly mischief. I am attempting to keep this Opera house running, and with those idiots as managers, it's all going to-"

"Very well, I realize that the new managers are hardly musical savants, and that they could use tips in the right direction. But is that truly all you plan on doing? You are not going to threaten them?"

He looked at her, the hateful glint of steel flashing in his eyes.

"I will say what needs to be said to ensure my orders are followed to the letter. Especially concerning that shrieking banshee who has polluted my halls and ears with her wails for far too long." The corners of her mouth flicked upward despite her efforts. "After a performance like last night, there can be no question that _you_ are the rightful Prima Donna, and as such-"

"Do _not_ bring me into this." She said sharply, recalling all too clearly his little notes from the past.

_Christine Daae will be singing on your behalf tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune…_

_A disaster beyond your imagination will occur_…

"I'm already well aware that Carlotta's departure yesterday was your goal." He made no move to deny it, but continued to glare.

"I have no desire to advance my career through demands and attacks on Divas. Should I be given another lead role in a production, I want it to be because they genuinely believe I deserve it, not because they are scared that you will take action." She looked him full in the face, resolve in her eyes.

"In the new production tonight, I will gladly and graciously accept any role they offer me, be it Countess, chorus girl, or piece of shrubbery. And," now her gaze softened, and he noticed that she actually looked nervous before lowering her head. "I would hope that my teacher would be proud of me no matter where I am on stage, and not lose faith in me should I be rejected and placed in a different role."

She felt two finger tips move to her chin, guiding her back up to face him.

"I… could _never_ be less than amazed with you, Christine. Nor could I ever lose faith concerning you or your angelic voice." He paused, and seemed torn. She leapt on her chance.

"Then allow me to make my career through hard work and practice, as _you_ taught me. Promise me that if you do send the managers notes, you will not do so in a threatening manner, and you especially will not try to force them to give me a specific part." Her eyes beseeched him, as if his decision meant life or death. "Let the events play out as they will, for better or worse. And then," she said, a twinkle and hint of mischief coming into her eyes, "whether I leave the stage a piece of scenery or a Countess, meet me tonight." Her eyes searched his again. "Please, Erik."

At the sound of his name, his eyelids drifted closed, and he inhaled deeply. He remained that way for a few moments, before looking at her once more. His eyes contained a strained look, a tormented softness.

"If… if you would truly be upset should I intervene, then I… shall refrain from doing so." He clenched his jaw firmly. "But I _will not_ refrain from sending notes to the managers concerning my desire that Carlotta remain gone, and you be the new Diva. Rest assured," he said, noticing her rising panic, "that I will not threaten them. I will be… amicable. And," and now the hardness came in full force, "I do not want you to see the Vicomte." There was no question in his voice.

For a moment, Christine stood still, as the shock of it all wore off. Raoul, dear, sweet, charming Raoul, would be returned to the way he was. She had not led to his downfall, not yet. And she could prevent such an outcome from ever occurring now. The thought made her more hopeful.

Then she looked up and realized he was waiting for her affirmation.

"Raoul is the new patron of our Opera house, and a childhood friend of mine. I cannot merely ignore his existence. However," she said, raising her right hand to stop his rebuttal, "I will not make attempts to seek him out, and should he seek my company outside the Opera house, I will not accompany him. Will that satisfy you, Erik?" Despite actually trying to reason with him, she felt another flutter of love as she watched his face change at her pronunciation of his name.

He nodded in a quick jerk, before gazing at her face and shifting his body, a clear sign of his departure. She stepped backwards into the dressing room, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

"Until tonight then, Erik."

He nodded, gracefully this time, and in a swirl of his cloak headed back down the tunnel, silently and quickly becoming invisible just before the mirror clanged shut.

She turned around, surveying the room. She suddenly felt dizzy as the memories flooded back to her. Meg, normal and lively, Madame Giry, stern and mother like, the managers, Carlotta, everything was as before! She _could_ change everything! Hadn't she just started? He would not threaten the managers, would not start a Diva war, would not alarm Raoul, would not hang Buquet-

_Buquet_.

And what exactly had she done to prevent that from occurring? To prevent Buquet from spotting him roaming the scaffolds, causing the Phantom to emerge in terrible, deadly force?

"_Merde_!"

**Bit of an important tidbit to be forgetting there, Chrissy. Another update shortly! Poor Christine is just running interference everywhere!**


	6. Correspondence of Letters

**Cue the character appearance bomb!**

Christine raced out of the dressing room, hell-bent on reaching Madame Giry in time.

_The notes will be delivered this morning. He's only just left, they cannot be out yet!_

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she almost crashed into Madame Giry.

"Christine!"

"Madame!"

"Where on Earth are you off to in such a hurry?" Madame Giry placed her hands on Christine's shoulders, baring her escape. She made her look her in the face. "What has happened? Why are you running?" Her stern face was scrutinizing.

"N-nothing is wrong, Madame. I am only in a hurry. I was looking for you, actually." She caught her breath as she explained, relieved to have found her in time.

"Me? What for?" Madame Giry looked very concerned, and Christine remembered full well that she had known of the Phan-Erik, always known he was a man, and must have known who her Angel was.

"I would like you to take this note to him, when you go to check if he has left a message." She held out her hastily scribbled request.

Madame's eyebrows shot up as she looked down at the paper. She released her grip on Christine's shoulders, taking the note carefully in her fingers. She did not miss that it had been hastily sealed with candle wax.

"Why are you so desperate to contact him with this, dear?" She furrowed her brow, confusion and anxiety entering her eyes.

"I merely failed to convey something before, and I hoped to tell him this morning." She looked into her face, begging her to take it and hurry.

"I… have not received any such notes yet, as I was coming to check on you, dear. Are you quite certain you are alright?" Christine felt herself smile broadly.

"I couldn't be better, Madame. Everything is fine. Wonderful, even. A new performance will begin tonight. What could be more exciting?" She curtsied, and started to move around the ballet mistress who continued to look stunned. "I shall see you at practice, Madame. Thank you for taking my note!" And she scurried away, preparing herself for her demotion to Pageboy, and praying that he would see the note in time.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry walked briskly toward Box Five, hoping for Christine's sake that she would not yet find a note. She breathed a sigh of relief to see nothing when she opened the door. She laid the letter down in his usual place before backing out quickly and shutting the door. A cursory glance of the scaffolds and halls assured her that she was alone. She quickly headed back toward her room to await the arrival of her troublesome mail delivery and worry over her charge.<p>

Christine.

What had happened last night? She had not been disturbed as she'd expected. The girl had seemed to positively glow as she walked away. Only when trying to convince her to leave the note had she seemed desperate.

Why had she been so happy? Should she not have been hurt, outraged, to discover her precious angel was nothing more than a man, let alone the Phantom?

She thought back, trying to recall how she'd reacted when receiving the rose. She'd been confused, perturbed with the anonymous sender. And not to mention the Vicomte. She'd overheard Christine refusal to go to dinner with someone who was clearly dear to her even after many years. She had refused in the name of her angel, although the boy had insisted. He'd started yelling when he discovered her gone. Gone with her Angel of Music.

And now here she was, seemingly nonplussed after such a night!

What had _happened_ last night?

* * *

><p>The Phantom skulked silently into his box, his remaining letter clasped in his hand: a brief letter that Madame could give them, informing the fools together of his wishes, and reminding them of their ineptitude. He wasn't breaking his promise, he thought with a smirk. It wasn't as though he was outright threatening them.<p>

A tiny, miniscule barb of guilt continued to prick him despite his justification. Some vague trace of honor insisted that it was the intent that mattered, and the intent which Christine would see. He had promised Christine not two hours ago, and he was already going against his word.

He was shocked from his internal debate when he spotted another piece of paper in the room, sealed with drops of pink candle wax. He picked it up, and smelled Christine's perfume. It was like a bouquet of roses.

He opened it with a flick, his heart pounding to read her words.

_Dearest Erik,_

_I hope this note finds you well, despite only parting from you mere moments ago. I merely wish to ask another favor of you. Yes, I realize I have no right after all you have already done for me, but it would mean a great deal to me if you would seek me out before tonight's performance. No matter my role, a moment with you would surely calm any nerves I might have. After all, it would be impossible to be nervous, knowing an angel is watching. I understand if you are unable, and my voice shall be for you none the less._

_Yours,_

_Christine_

'Yours, Christine.'

'Yours, Christine.'

"Are you truly?" he whispered to the empty room. "Oh, Christine, I could deny you nothing."

* * *

><p>Christine peaked around the door, seeing the managers speaking to each other. She inhaled a fortifying breath before walk calmly into the foyer. The managers looked at her in unison, both standing straight and tall. She smiled slightly, giving a small curtsy.<p>

"Good morning, Messieurs. I trust you are well?"

Both managers bowed hastily in return, and she realized that both clutched small letters in their hands.

_Oh, what have you done, Erik?_

"Quite well, Miss Daae. We hope you are well, after your disappearance last night?" Firmin inquired, eyebrow raised in curiosity and, she supposed, a touch of disapproval.

She smiled, remembering how her disappearance had only fueled ticket sales for subsequent performances.

"I am very well, Messieurs, and I apologize for my untimely departure. Something came up that I needed to deal with. I hope you understand."

"Well!" Andre laughed nervously. "Do try to give us a bit more warning next time, Mademoiselle." His fingers shifted the letter in his hand.

"Indeed, Miss Daae. No harm was done this time, but we cannot appear clueless when our patrons request an audience with the Diva!" Firmin explained, adjusting his skewed tie.

"Now about tonight's performance, Miss Daae." Andre continued, glancing down at the note in his hand. "La Carlotta has not returned to us, and as such we likely require you to play the-"

"What is the meaning of this?"

Christine closed her eyes, wincing at the piercing shriek that marked the return of the Prima Donna. Ten years, and she still hadn't gotten the sound out of her head.

She opened them to see Carlotta strutting up the stairs, fury blazing in her eyes.

"I have your letter! A letter which I rather resent!"

"But, Signora," cried Andre, "what letter? What are you talking about?"

Christine wilted, realizing that Erik had withheld none of his letters. _Do your promises mean nothing?_ The thought was bleak.

"Oh, don't play coy with me, so-called managers! I have it!" Carlotta turned to look at Christine, hatred blazing in her eyes. "So, you think that after one mediocre performance you can replace me? Me!"

"Signora, please! What did this letter say?" Firmin held out his hand, but Carlotta pulled out the letter and read aloud herself.

"A good artist knows when her time is up. As you are not good, I am not surprised you haven't realized that yours has come and gone. Christine Daae's voice means you are no longer needed at this Opera, and would be foolish to attempt to return."

Christine wanted to pull her hair out and scream. _This is how you keep your word to me? So long as it is not an overt threat, you believe you've done no wrong?_

"We sent no such thing, Signora! Of course we want you back! Your public wants you back!"

Christine frowned inwardly, knowing full well that her reviews had been incredibly high, praising her voice and performance as the best the Opera House had seen in years. The public had not mourned Carlotta's departure.

"Then what were you discussing with your little ingénue, hmm?"

The managers stuttered, glancing at Christine before answering.

"We, we were merely informing Miss Daae…" Andre started.

"Yes! Yes, informing Miss Daae," Firmin gestured to her, "that in the event you did not return, she would have to take the lead." At Carlotta's furious expression he hastily continued. "But as you have returned, you shall of course be given your rightful role as Countess!"

Carlotta pursed her lips, seeming to consider for a moment. She fixed her gaze on Christine once more, who kept her expression impassive.

"And what part will _she_ be given?" Carlotta asked, pointing an imperious finger at Christine.

"Well, Signora, we will have to see what other singing roles Miss Daae-"

"NO! Miss Daae will _not_ sing!" Everyone jumped at her screeched proclamation.

"Signora,-" Andre began.

"She will play the part of the Pageboy! The _silent_ role!" Carlotta said, lifting her head so she might look down her nose at Christine.

Christine stood calmly, unwilling to show anger or any other reaction against Carlotta. As the unfit wife of a Vicomte, she had dealt with far worse than anything Carlotta could come up with. Her once fragile shell had become nearly bulletproof.

"Signora, Miss Daae's role will be determined by-" Firmin was cut off as well.

"Miss Daae will play the role of the Pageboy, or I _will not sing_!" She stomped her foot, and Christine was reminded of a three year old.

"Please, Signora-"

"I will play the Pageboy, Messieurs. I do not mind." All eyes turned to her, only to be met with her calm resolve. "I will play the Pageboy if for no other reason than to end the temper tantrum currently on display."

Carlotta took a moment to process what Christine had said before letting out a high pitched cry, raising her fan as if to strike her. The managers also stared at Christine, shocked, before seeing Carlotta's movements.

"Signora!"

"Strike me and I will not be responsible for the outcome." Christine said quite calmly. Panic had risen in her, but not for any move Carlotta made. If Carlotta laid a hand on her _he _would find out whether or not he was watching at the moment. And she doubted he would let such an attack go unpunished, promise or not.

"I-I-you little! How dare you-"

"You are supposed to be a lady, Madame." Carlotta stopped talking, staring at Christine in rage. "Kindly attempt to act like one." Christine's look was hard, and many an aristocrat had been on the receiving end during her marriage. Disparaging comments made against her did not penetrate her shield, and she had certainly learned how to respond calmly. She turned to the now white managers.

"If that is all, Messieurs, I would like to retire to practice for my role. Though it is silent, I would like to review everything. Because I believe, sirs," and she cast a small side glance at Carlotta, "that every role in an Opera is key, and must be played to perfection, whether singing a cadenza or dancing." She curtsied to them, before looking at Carlotta and inclining her head.

She walked back toward the dorm rooms calmly, holding her head up under the shocked stares. But there was one she felt in particular, that seemed to follow her every move. She glanced at the ceiling, smiling slightly as she moved into the halls. She had counted to ten before she heard the stuttering wails of the Diva.

**Too much owning on Christine's part? I mean, after what she must've been through for ten years, let's all hope she grew some sort of spine! Let me know what you think!**


	7. My Dear Old Friend

The Phantom followed her through the halls, his eyes ever on the back of her head. He'd been watching the managers' reactions to his notes when he'd seen her appear, as beautiful and radiant as ever. He was suddenly very glad he'd kept his promise for the most part. He didn't think he could handle seeing any greater disappointment cloud her face.

But that damn woman! The managers were about to make Christine the Countess!

More surprising, though, were his song-bird's calm responses to Carlotta's incessant shrieking. His angel had never once faltered, even as she rebuked Carlotta for her antics. When had his young pupil grown up so? She held herself as an adult, not a blushing eighteen year old. His heart sped up excitedly as he watched her, even while his mind railed that she could not have changed so quickly, so seamlessly.

Her questions and statements at the mirror and in his lair had been so shocking. She had not recoiled from his hideous visage, and had acted as though it was nothing new to her. Her fingers had caressed the scars as if they meant nothing.

He brought her note up to his lips, kissing it gently as he inhaled her rosy scent. How could he have ever discovered her? What had he done in his miserable and violent existence to deserve her?

_Nothing,_ his sinister subconscious hissed. _You __**don't**__ deserve her. That's why you lied and manipulated her for years until she could never turn you away!_

He kept his eyes trained on her, leaping down lightly as she moved into a different hall. She stopped at her room, pausing a moment before turning her key. She turned around as she backed into the room, her eyes scanning the hall.

_Dare I dream she looks for me_?

She smiled after a moment, before sweeping her arm into her room and walking in.

_Captivated. That is all she is._ He pressed his lips together tightly, wishing the foul thoughts away.

* * *

><p>She turned quickly to face the mirror, tucking her hair behind her ears and straightening her sleeves both realizing that it was entirely possible he was going to come out of the mirror once more. Turning away as her face began to resemble a cherry, she once more chastised herself for such childish behavior.<p>

_A woman is needed now, not that spoiled, foolish girl you once were_.

She had only intended to come to this room to collect a few possessions, as now that Carlotta had returned she would be replaced. Placing her brush, cosmetics, and a few articles of clothes into piles and into her bag, she set it down on the floor, looking into the mirror once more.

He did not appear.

Disappointed, as she was sure he had been following her before, and anxious to speak with him once more, she collected her bag and left after thoroughly scanning the hallway for any gleam of white or darting swish of black. She saw none.

The old dormitories seemed dank and cold to her, but not for their lank of grandeur. Indeed, they were lacking only in a secret door for her angel. However, they were not lacking in loud and vivacious ballet rats, most of whom looked up and smiled upon her arrival.

But one in particular made her presence known, as she had done for nearly the last decade of her life. Except this time as she darted up and screamed, a different memory surfaced first.

"Christine! You're back!"

"_Christine! Christine! Always Christine!_"

The happy young girl threw her arms around her dearest friend, not noticing the involuntary shiver that went through her.

_Searing pain, screams, strong arms, and blood… so much blood_…

"Where have you been all this time? You disappeared without a trace!" The blonde girl pulled back to look at Christine intently, eyes dancing with curiosity. She faltered at the sight of her friend's pale face.

"What is wrong, Christine? You look as if you're about to faint!" She pressed a palm to Christine's forehead, bringing it back to her own.

"You don't feel warm…"

Finally, after swallowing subtly, Christine found her voice once more.

"N-nothing is wrong, Meg. Everything is fine."

_And with God as my witness, it shall remain so_!

**And Meg arrives on seen. So there are only a few remaining characters to appear. We all know they just **_**have**_** to show up eventually.**

**Sorry this chapter was so short. I was really trying to get Meg to show up, but then writers block showed its ugly face.**

**Thank you to You Are Love, phantom's love, AlteraPars87, and Jayney for their kind reviews! I hope you all enjoy the chapters to come!**


	8. A Reunion or Two

**Hello everyone! Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

Christine forced herself to calm as she looked at Meg, a sweet and kind young girl, who loved her like a sister. Who had never done her any wrong. Yet.

"Well, where did you go last night? The Vicomte left without you, but when I went to your dressing room you were gone! You didn't return to the dormitories, so…" Her eyes were wide and demanding. "Where have you been all this time?"

Christine could not help the small, disbelieving chuckle that pasted her lips.

_All this time indeed._

"I will tell you everything, Meg, eventually. But not right now." She lowered her voice, glancing over Meg's shoulder at the group of curious dancers. "Not here."

Meg's lips pressed together and she exhaled heavily through her nose, disappointment etched in her face.

"Very well, but you must swear it!" Meg clasped Christine's right hand in both of hers, and she nodded. "Well then, have you spoken to the managers yet? What did they have to say about tonight's performance?"

"Carlotta has returned, demands and all. She will play the role of Countess tonight, and has demanded that I play the Pageboy." Christine said it simply, as it was truly of no consequence to her what role she played on stage. Tonight, after the performance, would be what mattered.

"What? But your reviews! Your reception! You were spectacular last night! How can the managers possibly allow-"

"Carlotta knows about my reception, Meg. And I have no doubt that she read the reviews. And they most likely scared her." Christine said with a shake of her head. "She cared more about my remaining silent than anything else. If the audience cannot hear me, then they cannot want me more than her." She spread her hands out before her, having long ago realized the root of Carlotta's hatred. Fear. The world had feared Erik. Erik had feared the world. Raoul had feared Erik's power over her. Meg had feared Christine's return. And tragedy had occurred all around. "How many times in this world will fear lead to hatred?" She did not even realize she'd spoken allow until Meg answered.

"Christine? I've never heard you talk so gravely. You act as though some great weight has landed upon your shoulders." Meg drew closer, worry etched into her pretty face. "Won't you please tell me what is bothering you?"

Christine flinched back at her proximity, covering her slip with a light laugh before taking one of Meg's hands in her own.

"Later. Now, we have rehearsal to muddle through. If only the dance did not require musical cues. Then we could wear ear plugs and be spared Carlotta's torture!" Christine smiled playfully, and Meg's grin returned.

"Indeed! Perhaps we'll get lucky and something else will fall on her!"

Christine's grin faltered, hoping that Erik would not hear Meg's comment and take it as invitation.

IIIII

As everyone gathered onstage and off, the Phantom glided silently amongst the scaffolds, taking in the sight. Carlotta pranced around, spritzing her mouth every few minutes as if standing in a desert. How often he contemplated switching the water for something a little more powerful, and less refreshing. Perhaps tonight's performance would be a good time…

But alas, he realized it was not to be, for he'd promised an Angel that he would take no such action. And though seeing her demoted to such an unworthy standing filled him with rage, he kept seeing how she would glance at Box Five and around the scaffolds, a small smile on her face. The thought of disappointing her was intolerable.

So, he contented himself for the morning with keeping a close eye on the practices, watching Christine as she pranced about in men's attire, never once straying from her role. Her expressions were loud and clear, and the rehearsal went by without much trouble. She never once shrunk away from a glare from Carlotta, and did not rise to her snide remarks during scene changes.

Again, he asked himself when she had become so mature, so much more of an adult. Just last week, she had been so shy and fragile she couldn't bear to have anyone look at her too long. Now, she seemed to hold herself up under the heaviest of gazes, and carried herself not with pride, but a certain strength of spirit. She was no longer the fragile rose he'd known for the long.

And the question bothering him was _what had brought on the change_?

His only answer, though he did not like it, was their meeting. She had literally come back from their meeting transformed, her eyes clearer and sharper, her spine reinforced. He did not want to believe it was his ghastly face that had brought the change. So he turned to the only other alternative he could think of: her debut.

She must have finally realized that he was not patronizing her when he spoke of her talent. She must have seen it for herself in the audience's reaction; the cheers, the roses flying from all directions, the compliments. Perhaps a successful debut had been all she'd needed to burst into bloom, and walk with this new gait.

As he preferred the latter to the former, he'd been terrified that Carlotta's return, and Christine's subsequent demotion, would shove her back into her shell of self-doubt, or make her doubt her abilities worse than ever. But he'd heard her conversations with Little Giry. Her wisdom, her insight, they had both astounded him and filled him with pride. She would not be returned to that meek child, and for that he was exceedingly grateful.

His peace of mind was shattered, however, during the lunch break when he felt a peculiar feeling of dread settle in his heart.

IIIIIIIII

Christine, for the most part, was simply too enthralled to be dancing and performing on the Populaire stage once again to be saddened by her role. She had needed to pull out her script after speaking with Meg, hurriedly flipping through it to remind herself of the part. Although she obviously had no lines, she suddenly had difficulty recalling what exactly the Pageboy _did_. Wore the maid's outfit, suffered the leers of the Count, turned into the Countess' lover, etc. The role was, as she remembered, fairly straightforward.

The practice went by without much trouble, despite Carlotta's frequent comments and the occasional mishap from the dancers. The managers continued to bow and scrap to Carlotta, much to the Diva's pleasure. Monsieur Reyer had to cut the music more than once for them, and Christine smiled to recall the man's obvious exasperation the first time, often rolling his eyes at the manager's senseless kowtowing.

As the lunch break was called, she exhaled out her mouth in an O, dropping her arms from her hips as she sought Meg in the crowd of ballerinas. She spotted her, but before exiting the stage she glanced once more toward the ceiling, desperate for some glimpse of him. Finding none, but feeling his eyes on her, she smiled and bowed slightly, inclining her head and body ever so slightly as men would do when meeting an acquaintance. No one else noticed in their rush for sustenance. She then turned to leave and could have sworn she heard a small, teasing chuckle in her ear. She turned her head ever so slightly, a small grin on her face, before heading out after the other girls.

As she and Meg departed from the dressing area, their more obvious makeup removed and changed, she realized she had yet another reappearance to face.

And given that the Vicomte de Chagny was coming down the hallway, she realized it might happen sooner rather than later.

**Because he just **_**has**_** to show up eventually. Raoul de Chagny, Round… God what number would this even be?**

**Special thanks to ThunderStorm7916, OperaAngel, and monsieurenjolras-everything for their kind reviews! I wanted to sit down and start typing immediately they made me so happy!**


	9. Hidden Interlude

**Dear readers, I have realized I never gave an actor or description of what our little Phantom cast looks like. Bad author! So, just a quick summation: The Phantom is Ramin Karimloo, because I fell in love with him when LND came out, and then I fell in love again when I found clips of him in the Original Phantom. And then I fell in love again when the 25th came out. So. But my Phantom has the Gerard Butler-like hair, only it is still dark, like Ramin's. So, assume he wears the wig to hide that receding hairline on his right side which is more pronounced than in the movie. Christine, in my head, keeps taking the form of Sierra Boggess for similar reasons, but she manifests as Gina Beck as well. So, you can pretty much imagine whatever Christine you want. Same goes for Raoul. Meg, to me, is the movie Meg, Jennifer Ellison. Same for Giry. I liked movie Giry.**

**Ok! Sorry about all that! On with the chapter!**

* * *

><p>Christine froze in her tracks, staring at the back of Raoul's head as he turned to speak to the managers over his shoulder. His blonde hair fell across his face, effectively obscuring his view.<p>

Panic came hard and fast, and she ripped her hand away from Meg's. She looked at her for a split second, trying to come up with an excuse, with anything to explain herself.

_I've got to escape or my once-future husband is going to find me!_

"I've got to go. I'll talk with you later!" The sentence had not even finished before she was dashing back down the hallway, hearing Meg call her name in confusion. She pushed past stage hands and other dancers, apologizing hurriedly and jumping over inanimate obstacles. She reached a turn, quickly ducking into the adjacent hall.

Taking a peek behind her, she was dismayed to see Meg following behind, shoving through and looking over the heads of those in the halls. Christine was about to call out to her, to bring her into the hall, when she saw another blonde head following closely behind Meg. She groaned in dismay, turning and sprinting swiftly away from the main hall, darting down until she found a door. Upon opening it, she realized it was near the stairs which she and Raoul had taken to the roof the night of Il Muto. Tonight.

She flew up the stairs, darting quickly to another door, bent on finding a back way out so as to avoid Meg and Raoul altogether. She wasn't prepared to deal with this yet! She needed to talk to Erik again, to discuss the performance, and to make him promise to leave Carlotta and Buquet alone! And she knew that Raoul's presence would only set him on edge. _And_ God help her if he saw them talking together alone!

She found another set of stairs, her memories of the Opera house and its pathways coming back in force. She sprinted down the steps, peaking down quickly. Seeing only the stagehands once more, she made a break for the door.

Meg and Raoul came rushing by the stairs just as she descended them, the three of them nearly colliding with each other.

"Christine!"

"Meg, no-"

"Christine?"

Both girls turned to face Raoul, who was standing behind them. His gaze was fixed on Christine, eyes boring into hers. She fought to remain calm as waves of memories, some pleasant and some not, crashed around her.

_Little Lotte…_

_Say you'll share with me…_

_Romantic idiots, those two people are gone…_

"Hello, Raoul."

* * *

><p>Erik had noticed when the Vicomte entered the building. Resentment had bubbled up for a myriad of reasons; the boys obvious fondness for Christine, their shared history, his continued pursuit of her, and the way he acted as though she had no choice but to accept his invitation to dinner. The Punjab lasso felt so strong and smooth in his hands.<p>

But his anger gave way to hope as he watched Christine. She saw the Vicomte, and she had not appeared please. Quite the contrary, actually. Her eyes looked panicked, and she'd broken from Meg and literally fled down the hall. The boy had managed to see her, however, and the Little Giry had eagerly stated they would find her.

He'd rushed after Christine, following her as best he could from above, but there were people all around and he couldn't risk being seen. He'd lost track of her for a few moments, darting back and to see her descending the stairs. He tried to reach out for her, to whisper in her ear that he was there, that he would help her, when she'd slipped out of sight.

And the damned boy found her.

Now he watched from above, listening intently to their conversation. He had reached into his breast pocket to hold Christine's letter to him, holding it against his heart like a shield.

"Christine, where did you go last night? I came to retrieve you for supper, and you'd gone. But I heard voices coming out of your room." The Vicomte kept trying to lean toward her, heedless of her continued attempts to maintain distance between them. Erik tried to convince himself he did not imagine her resistance.

"I apologize, Raoul, but I did tell you that I could not go to supper with you. I was exhausted from the performance last night, and I have another tonight. I simply could not stay out." She shrugged her shoulders, looking completely innocent in her deception. Erik filed that knowledge away for another time.

"Yes, but Christine, why then did I hear voices from your dressing room? Yours and some _man's_?" The accusation in his tone, though slight, caused Christine's guileless expression to harden.

"I don't know whose voices you thought you heard, Raoul, but as I had already departed from the room for the evening it could not have been me. Perhaps you heard an echo from the rooms nearby, and assumed it to be me?" Erik was again impressed with her ability to deceive, although a cold feeling crept up his spine. All her sweet words, her understanding, her compassion, they could not have been a lie, could they? She hadn't been appeasing him, just so that she might calm his rage? His rage, which she'd said herself had frightened her. Had that been the only truth she'd told?

The letter was crushed tightly in his fist while his throat closed slightly from the panic, but as he continued to watch Christine put balm on his wounds. She kept her promise.

"Christine, I was very worried. But, as I can clearly see, you are unharmed. So, shall we dine? I understand you are on your lunch break. I shall accompany you." To Erik's amusement and relief, Christine was shaking her head.

"I am sorry, Raoul, but I have actually decided to forgo my lunch break today. With a new performance tonight, I do not want to have much to eat. Nerves, you know, they ruin the appetite." She inclined her head, and moved to leave, but he put out his hand, catching her by the arm. She flinched in his grip, her eyes flashing to his face in alarm. Though it seemed impossible, Erik's grip on the letter tightened. Christine seemed almost fearful of the brat. Why?

"Christine, I would very much like to spend some time with you, to catch up on these years. Would you accompany me to dinner tonight then?" _No! No, she will not! Because she is spending the evening with me! Because she __**wants**__ to spend the evening with me! Now take your hands off her before I-_

"I am sorry Raoul, but I will no doubt be very tired tonight as well. I really just don't think I will be up to going out." Christine firmly pushed his hand off her arm, taking a step backwards. She inclined her head once more.

"I must be going now, as I want to review my role and cues again. One can never be too prepared. Adieu."

She walked away briskly, ducking into a hallway. Erik followed her progression, eyes widening when he saw that she had broken into a run. She sprinted away until he was actually panting from the chase.

Christine came to a halt in a dark hallway, placing her hand over her heart. He stopped himself above her, watching for a moment. She froze, and to his astonishment, looked up.

"Are you merely going to linger up there, or come speak to me?"

He swallowed, realizing she hadn't actually found him with her eyes, but had seemed to _sense_ him. He unclenched his hands, and was dismayed to find that he had crushed the letter into a ball, rubbing the crease lines till the paper was raw. He carefully folded it back into a square, placing it in his pocket once more as he watched Christine.

She was leaning against the wall, looking about slowly. She frowned at his continued silence and invisibility. "I believe I'm developing a bit of a sixth sense where you are concerned, Monsieur. I can feel when you're about."

He smiled slightly, feeling warmth rush to his heart.

She didn't start when he landed gracefully to her right. She titled her head, gazing at him with such an impossible combination of calm and intensity that he actually felt himself blush.

"Did you bear witness to my little meeting?" She raised her eyebrow knowingly.

"If you are referring to your capture at the hands of Little Giry and the Vicomte, then yes, I did. Although your previous escape attempts were fascinating to watch." He'd moved closer to her, so that they stood facing each other, mere inches apart.

"Then you saw that I have kept my promise. Even more so than I originally said. Not only did I reject Raoul, I made a valiant attempt to avoid him." She reached out her hands almost subconsciously, and he mimicked her movements until their hands were linked between them. Fingers entwined, she gazed at his eyes once more. "And I myself have been chasing another."

He froze, unable to move from the shock and almost fearful joy that crept into his being. He brought their hands toward his mouth and, while keeping his eyes on her for permission, kissed her hand. He closed his eyes tightly at the contact, reassured beyond his wildest dreams when she had seemed to want his kiss, encourage him.

He lowered their hands and opened his eyes. Her own seemed to sparkle, despite the dim lighting. "I will be watching over you tonight, as always. Perhaps you will be able to sense me in Box Five, although I'll doubt you'll see me. No one ever has." Her demeanor changed instantly, her complexion paling so fast she gave him a fright. "Christine? _Ange_, are you well?" He moved one hand to her cheek without thinking, and she leaned into it as he cupped her face.

"Promise me. _Promise me_ that you will cause no trouble tonight. You will not provoke the managers, or Carlotta, or the Vicomte, no matter what happens. Promise me, Erik." She spoke so passionately and her eyes held that pleading look once more.

"My dear," he said, squeezing her hands for a moment, "I have already promised you that I will take no such action. What exactly do you fear I shall do?" Suspicion crept into him, and he again wondered at her practiced deceit. Did she only fear him? Was that why she sought out these promises?

"I have told you, Erik, that your temper can be frightening. I only worry that you shall react badly should the managers disregard your wishes." She looked him in the eye. "I know they don't believe they should listen to you, and they are fools. You know as well as I they are only interested in this Opera house for the money. They've no artistic appreciation, or taste. All I ask is that no matter what they do, you will stay safe, and will not cause a disruption." And at this she blushed slightly, focusing on their still joined hands. "I may sound selfish, but I do not want to take any chances of our meeting afterwards being ruined."

Despite his nerves, he felt that hope resurface. Christine wanted him safe, wanted him to lay low, so that their evening would not be threatened? Dear God, did He send him a true angel?

He slid his right hand from her cheek, putting two fingers under her chin and tilting her up to face him. Her eyes were slightly wary.

"I shall promise you until my mouth runs dry that I will not interfere with this performance. Should any problems occur, rest assured they will not be by hand."

She smiled at him, and when her eyes met his, they seemed to draw closer, her lids falling shut ever so slightly. His breath hitched, and he was unable to move, despite the invitation of her expression. He stared in shock as she seemingly moved in slow motion, her face only two inches, an inch, from his!

But disappointment crashed over him even as relief came when she did not press her lips to his. She seemed to hesitate, chancing a look in his eyes. He didn't know what he saw there, be it insecurity, confidence, or patience. He was, however, almost positive he saw warmth.

She closed her parted lips with her eyes, and placed a delicate, impossibly soft kiss on his cheek. His right hand came to rest on her left shoulder, his left hanging numbly at his side. He lost himself in her kiss, though it could have lasted no more than a few seconds. He memorized every sensation; her lips on his skin, her cheek brushing his, her right hand gently coming up to squeeze his left arm.

When she broke away, he was embarrassed to find that he moved his face forward slightly in an unconscious attempt to keep contact with her. He felt his cheek flush and turned his head, presenting her with only his mask. He heard her giggled quietly.

"Might we find a suitable practice room, Maestro? I would like nothing more than to sing with you." He heard her body shift, as if uncomfortable. "Of course, if you are busy, I understand-"

"Nonsense. Come, we shall rehearse." He offered her his right hand, breathing a sigh of relief when she took it and they began to walk together.

They'd made no more than ten steps when a low growl met their ears.

Erik turned to look at her, visible eyebrow raised. She blinked rapidly, a blush tinting her cheeks as her right hand went to her stomach. "Perhaps a change of plan then, my dear." Erik turned Christine around, leading her down a different hallway. ""Despite appreciating your quick excuse for the Vicomte, you will not deprive yourself of proper sustenance, performance or no." He placed her against a wall, putting both hands on her shoulders. "Remain here for a moment, if you please. I shall return." And before she could blink, he was gone.

* * *

><p>She rested her head against the wall, exhaling loudly. Thank God she had retained her acquired skill of quick excuses when it came to the aristocracy. She'd abandoned more than one stuffy gathering too early claiming headaches, soreness, and exhaustion.<p>

Unsurprisingly, Raoul's insistent nature was as unchanged as the day they'd been reunited and she knew without a doubt, as she had not the first time, that his intentions were romantic. She'd avoided him for now, and had been rewarded with a few stolen moments with Erik, but the Vicomte would be back, and the previous incident had been too close for comfort. Seeing him once more had stirred up recent memories she'd rather forget; sweet smiles that had turned into scowls, warm embraces that had become hard and bruising. An unpleasant shudder ran through her and she wiped at her arm where he'd gripped her. _All this because I could not follow my heart when it mattered most, because I gave into fear and tried to live a lie._

Bitterness rose in her throat, her fingers digging into her palm as she lightly beat the wall behind her. _That wasn't why he treated me so poorly. It wasn't just because he knew, though he denied it to himself, that I longed for the Phantom. It was because he couldn't take the social rejection after marrying a "little Opera tramp." Especially after…_

"Hmm," her thoughts trailed off, drawing a blank on what she'd been considering. Wasn't there something else that made Raoul bitter? Had it just been her inability to entirely conform to his elite world? That seemed wrong to her. _Wasn't there something more that he hated?_

Erik reappeared at Christine's side at that moment, now in possession of a small basket and bottle, and her fixation on the past was broken.

"Erik, where did you-"

"A mere trip to the kitchens, and a small distraction in a direction away from me. It was not difficult." He handed her the basket, which upon opening revealed several apples, bread, and a block of cheese. She eagerly took out an apple and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"I cannot eat all of this, and certainly cannot have anything to drink, Maestro." While her words were stern, Christine kept a playful look in her eyes as she took a bite of the apple.

"I shall take whatever you cannot eat, and preserve it in my home for later this evening." Christine did not miss the hopeful look in Erik's eyes.

"Ah, planning ahead for how famished a performer can become after a show. Very clever." She chuckled softly as she took a few more bites. Erik was leaning against the opposite wall, bottle hanging on his right side.

"Concerning this drink, do no trouble yourself. You truly believe I am foolish enough to give you alcohol, a little slip like you?" he challenged, eyes glinting. At her raised eyebrow, he responded calmly. "It is apple juice, my dear. Hardly the drink of the enthusiasts."

Christine forced a smiled onto her face and shook her head, thinking involuntarily of Raoul again. Happiness seemed to flow out of her until her thoughts went to that man. She and the Phantom had not had this, this ease, even when she was a child and Erik her invisible Angel. They certainly had not had it once he'd become corporeal. Even on that night she came to find him, there had been very few sentences spoken. And on Coney Island, well, everything had happened too fast for such moments. And in every instance, she had allowed Raoul to hover over them like a shadow.

She forced the unpleasantness from her before Erik could take note, wondering instead on her companion's own demeanor. Had Erik even been capable of normalcy before Coney Island? All their interactions at the Opera House had had an ethereal quality to them. He'd always been an indomitable force that collided with her, urging her to yield. Swallowing a piece of apple, she looked at him through her lashes.

_No_, she thought solemnly, _the Phantom I knew would not have been capable of this calm. Certainly not after seeing Raoul, if his explosion at the mirror the night before was any indication._

Their moment, however, was brought swiftly to a close as footsteps echoed from a nearby hallway, clearly growing louder. Erik looked toward it and then swiftly darted to Christine's side, moving his arm around her waist. Before she even knew what was happening he was guiding her away and then suddenly they were rising. When they finally stopped moving, she was so disoriented she had to grab his arm to keep from falling. He laughed lowly as she stumbled in his arms.

"Forgive me, Christine. I did not wish to be seen. Or rather, did not want you to be seen consorting with the Opera Ghost. It would not benefit your reputation." His hands rested on her upper back, his thumbs brushing on her shoulders. She wrapped her arms a little more tightly around him and he seemed to realize their position for he sucked in another quiet breath.

"What do I care about reputation? You are lucky I did not shout my teacher's identity from the rooftop in my excitement." She laid her head against his chest, relishing in his heartbeat. She felt him swallow as his breathing became shallow and the heartbeat quickened.

"Y-You- it would be better to keep this arrangement to ourselves for now, _mon ange_. I cannot imagine the other cast members would react too kindly. After all, I am guilty without a trial of stealing their belongings and causing frightful accidents." She felt his uneasy chuckle deep in his chest.

Christine titled her head so she faced him, looking at his unmasked side. "I have trouble believing that the almighty Opera Ghost is truly responsible for every little powder-puff and ballet slipper that goes missing in this building. He has more important things to worry about." She felt his arms tightened and lowered her head again, smiling with pleasure as he tentatively rested his cheek atop her head.

"Indeed he does." Erik whispered, and she tightened her grip.

How long they remained there, lost in one another's embrace, neither knew. To Erik it seemed an eternity, and to Christine it seemed like it would never be enough. Reluctantly, she brought her hands to his front, causing him to raise his head quickly.

"I fear I must return now. Lunch break must surely be finished." She whispered, unwillingly to dispel the calm with a raised voice. He nodded slightly, keeping her gaze.

"Yes, quite right. You must go." He took her hand, and all too soon, deposited her on the ground once more. He carefully took the basket from her, but not before brushing a lock of hair from her face.

"Until tonight, _mon ange_." And then he disappeared in a swirl of his cloak.

* * *

><p>He stalked down the hallways carefully, looking at every corner suspiciously. He was certain he'd heard voices, a man and a woman's. But so far his search had yielded nothing, and he began to grow nervous.<p>

Who would've been skulking around back here? There wasn't much room in the hallways, and it was dark. His immediate thought was that a couple could've been having a little tête-à-tête, and planned on catching them in the act. The girls were easy enough to blackmail into a little extra cash, and the gentlemen, well, depending on who they were, he could turn a nice little profit off of them.

But so far he'd found nothing, and was disappointed at having missed whoever it was. He was about to give up when his beady eyes caught sight of foots steps in the dust that he only noticed by chance. He followed them eagerly, but after taking a few turns still yielded nothing. Frustrated, he kicked his foot at the dust, and made contact with something hard that rolled away from the impact.

Curious, Joseph Buquet followed it, picking it up. It was an apple, with a few bites taken out of it. Looking closer at the floor with his candle, he saw that where the apple had been were where the footsteps ended. They simply stopped, not even retreating back the way they'd come.

He smirked, glee forming. He could only think of one person who could make their footsteps disappear without leaving a trace of where they'd gone.

_So_, he thought, _perhaps I have discovered where the Opera Ghost likes to hide. And_, his grin grew wider,_ where he likes to bring some tasty little morsel_.

* * *

><p><strong>Bum Bum! Thank you to AlteraPars87 for your kind review! Sorry it took me a few days longer than usual to update. I had finals, and then I went through the story correcting my grammatical errors. New update by the weekend!<strong>


	10. The Life You Didn't Want

**Wow. That's all I can say. Thank you SO MUCH to Reverend Squid, You Are Love, and AlteraPars87 for their kind reviews. You have no idea how happy I was to sign in and be greeted with them.**

"_Poooooooor! Fool 'e makes me laugh! Hahahahaha_!"

Christine kept a straight face despite the incessant ringing in her ears. She kept in part and was relieved when they reached the second act without a hint of trouble. She had been terrified that, despite Erik's promises, she would soon hear either the Phantom's booming voice echoing all around or Carlotta's voice break into a croak. Nothing of the sort occurred, allowing her to relax into her role.

However, she could not stop the occasional glance towards the rafters, trying to pinpoint where he was watching. Nor did she miss the way Joseph Buquet continued to watch the ceiling as if waiting for something, or someone, to appear. It had finally occurred to Christine that she had never actually found out all the details concerning Buquet's death; whether or not he had provoked the Phantom, had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, or if it really had been an accident.

_How awful a person am I to have never even asked him_?

Her hands shook as she tried to reapply her makeup. Meg noticed, and came over, taking the brush and powder. "Christine, really! With your hands shaking like that you'll look more like a clown. What are you so worried about? You've been perfect." Meg frowned, wiping away the smeared eyeliner and blush.

"It's nothing, Meg. Just jitters." Christine said, disturbed when Meg started to smile knowingly.

"Well, your jitters wouldn't have anything to do with the Vicomte's presence, now would they?" Christine paled. "You needn't be embarrassed. I saw how he looked at you today. And how disappointed he was that you would not dine with him."

Christine swallowed awkwardly, her mind spinning to recall what Meg could have known all those years ago, only yesterday, when she'd seen Raoul again for the first time. _He came to my dressing room. Didn't Meg just mention that she saw him leave? He'd come to the door talking about my scarf and our childhood. Had she heard?_

"What I can't understand is your refusal to dine with him. Surely, some time alone would be the best way to rekindle old feelings-" Meg started as Christine backed away from her shaking her head.

"Meg, I have no interested in Rao- in the Vicomte beyond friendship. We were childhood sweethearts, and that is where it ends." Christine set her lips in a thin line, unfortunately looking rather comical with the makeup.

Meg raised an eyebrow, bringing herself to Christine again as she touched up her eye shadow. "Really? Is that why you ran away this afternoon when you saw him and blushed and stuttered like a love struck girl in his presence? I was trying to hold back my laughter, Christine, especially considering I had to run after you just so you could talk to him!"

Christine sighed heavily through her nose, eyes closed under Meg's ministrations. She prayed fervently that Meg's comments were not overheard by her masked specter. "Meg, has it occurred to you that I ran away because I did not _want_ to see him? Are you forgetting I refused him not once, but twice now? Three times, if you count all the different meals he's tried to have with me. Why do you think that is?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, as she couldn't look Meg in the eye.

"Well, I understand that you're nervous, having just found each other again. It's like something from a fairytale, the long-lost lover returning to claim his princess-"

"_Meg_!" Christine hissed, trying to send mental signals into the ceiling to Erik, hoping he did not share Meg's suspicions. "He is not my _lover_, and I have no interest in making him mine! Raoul is an old friend and I treasure my memories of him, but I am not about to run into his arms like a damsel in distress." _I have no reason to this time. How could I_?

"But, Christine, he wants to see you! I just know it! He was so eager to take you to dinner, and then to lunch. You should've seen his disappointment when he saw you'd left me in the hallway." Meg chuckled, and proceeded to imitate Raoul's light voice. "Mademoiselle, I thought I saw Christine Daae here a moment ago. Do you have any idea where she's gone? And then I said we could go find you, and his face lit up like the sun! Oh, it's all so romantic! But you have to stop being so shy around him, or he might-"

Christine backed away from her again, opening her eyes to fix them on Meg's. Meg's girlish smile faltered at the hard look in her eyes. "Might what, Meg? Why will you not listen to what I'm saying?" Christine exhaled loudly through her nose, closing her eyes to remain calm. _It isn't her fault. A childhood friend, a Vicomte no less, comes to seek me out? Of course she would assume I want his attentions_. _If I had never known Erik, I would have_. "Meg, yesterday I _was_ excited to see him. Who wouldn't be happy to see an old friend? But," she paused, and lifted her face to the ceiling for a moment as if deep in thought. In reality, she was trying to tell Erik she thought of him, that she was true to him. "Excitement does not equal infatuation. Raoul and I could never be more than friends. Surely you can see that?" She looked at Meg again, whose eyebrows were furrowed.

"Well, I-I realize that it would be a large change for you. But really, Christine, could you imagine it? You, a Vicomtess-"

"Me, nobility?" Christine scoffed, trying to keep her cool. After all, it had not only been a possibility once. It had been reality. "As if the upper class of Paris would ever accept a little Opera performer into their circle. And Meg, really! You're suggesting marriage to a man I haven't seen in years! I think not."

Meg, for her part, looked thoroughly confused. "Christine, you cannot mean to say that if the Vicomte asked for your hand you'd say _no_?" Meg's incredulous look spoke such volumes that Christine tried not to laugh. "A Vicomte, Christine! You would be taken care of for the rest of your life!"

"And never allowed to sing another note for the rest of my life." The finality, the firmness of Christine's voice seemed to give Meg pause and so she charged on. "Music is my life, Meg. It always has been. To give it all up, to be pampered and put up on a pedestal, which everyone should seek to tear me from, is not the life I want." She looked away from Meg, staring into the mirror at her own reflection. She wished he were on the other side, gazing back. _How is it possible I miss him just as much when he is away from me now as I did over those ten years? _"I have already found the life I want, the one I love. And I've no intention of surrendering it."

Before Meg could respond, the stage hands began to call out, and Madame Giry reappeared, ushering all the girls out to the wings.

IIIIIIII

No one heard the light moan which echoed from high above where a man stood clutching a small crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He was fighting very hard to control his breathing as small sobs threatened to take control. He pressed his lips together firmly to watch the rest of the opera, his gaze ever fixed on his beloved.

When she came out to take her bow, he whispered frantically to himself, the paper pressed to his heart.

"I love you, I love you, I love you…"

No one noticed the single drop that sailed down from the heights to land with a small splash on the wooden ground. And even if they had, no one would have suspected from whence it came. Ghosts, after all, cannot shed tears.

IIIIIIIII

His body was found by the other stagehands. There was a smashed bottled nearby, and they put two and two together; his breath reeked, his hands bore cuts, and his clothes were stained.

They picked him up and carried him off while a hundred yards away, the beautiful Christine Daae smiled joyfully and took her bows.


	11. Deadly Inclination

**Hello! Major apologies for not updating as quickly as usual. I had four 8 hour work days in a row and I didn't want my frustration to leak into the story. But now they are over and my joy overflows! It may leak.**

**Thank you Reverend Squid, You Are Love, and monsieurenjolras-everything for their kind reviews! To Reverend Squid and You Are Love, thank you for your plot opinions! Thank you monsieurenjolras-everything for your praise!**

**WARNING: CONTAINS MORE VIOLENCE AND INNUENDO THAN PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. THIS STORY HAS BEEN CHANGED TO A "T" RATING AS OF 12/22/11.**

**Enjoy!**

_Previously_...

Erik stalked the catwalks, anger and frustration boiling within him.

_Of course they'd sell Box Five to the wretched boy_, he seethed. _Of course the fools would disregard my orders. Christine had seen it coming. I should not be so surprised._

But there was something incredibly disturbing about seeing the _boy_ in Box Five. His face lit with a smile, his eyes never drifting from Christine. He beamed down at her with a doting expression that grated on Erik's nerves. There was something in that expression, something that seemed to gnaw at Erik's chest. He'd realized instantly the Vicomte's intentions regarding Christine. But something about this whole scenario seemed eerily familiar to him as if he'd seen it all before. He'd never been one to believe in déjà vu.

Erik walked even more cautiously than usual, unable to watch Christine as closely as he would have liked. He did manage to see her eyes dart around trying to find him, but he also saw Buquet's paying extra attention to the scaffolds and so did not attempt to leave a sign for her.

But it was after the first act came to a close that he truly felt dread bleed into his heart.

Little Giry, who he'd hardly minded at all in her life at the Opera, was steadily earning his ire. Lately, every time he saw her he felt a cool wave of resentment. It seemed to rise up without any conscious effort from him, and Erik had started to justify it to himself. Firstly, she was always the first to scream "The Phantom!" Erik had assumed that she guessed more at his existence than the others due to his association with her mother, so he did not truly care. It had actually been somewhat amusing, at first, until every time something miniscule went wrong she got the rats up in arms over him. Secondly, she'd dragged the Vicomte along to find Christine, despite Christine's obvious attempt at escape. And now, thirdly, she was trying to coach Christine on how to win the boy's heart! Intolerable!

However, what hurt the most was Meg's reasoning. Christine, his Christine, deserved to be catered to, to be waited upon, to be revered by the upper class. She was kind, gentle, and loving, lacking the cruelty inherent in so many others. If no man on Earth deserved her, then the nobility should be the only ones close enough to try.

An image, unbidden, rose in his mind. It was so powerful he had to grasp at a plank of wood. Christine and the boy, embracing each other, complimenting one another perfectly in their beauty and affection. For some reason unbeknownst to him, he envisioned them twirling together on the roof of the Opera house, lost in each other's eyes. He did not pay much heed to the setting, only swallowed painfully and gasped as they kissed each other quickly. He closed his eyes and covered them with his left hand, his right squeezing the wooden beam painfully.

_What had Little Giry said? Something from a fairytale, the long-lost lover returning to claim his princess_.

He gasped again as air seemed to stick in his throat, shaking his head and blinking rapidly to dispel the image. Such an event had never occurred! His mind was starting to unravel even more, no doubt, to be able to conjure such illusions so vividly.

He unconsciously reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing Christine's letter. Her love letter, as he'd taken to thinking of it. He opened and read it again, having memorized the words and needing to see proof of their existence.

_Yours, Christine. Yours, Christine._

"_I myself have been chasing another._"

He was surprised at the incredible pain he felt, like a knife twisting inside him. How could the hints of her devotion, of her affection for him, cause such pain? Why did it all seem so false now?

A tear fell onto the paper.

So lost was he in his turmoil that the Opera Ghost was, for the first time in his reign, caught unaware as the slimy stagehand approached him from behind.

* * *

><p>Buquet had kept a very close eye on the scaffolds for this performance. He'd been so certain that the Phantom would make an appearance. The managers had completely disregarded his demands; surely he would strike back? And when he did, that would be when Buquet made his move. But to his frustration, neither the Vicomte nor Carlotta suffered any accidents. He decided to curb his anger in a bottle of gin from which he drank subtle amounts, maintaining most of his lucidity.<p>

One thing he did notice, however, was that Christine Daae was constantly glancing upwards. And he remembered overhearing the managers, just that day, saying that the Opera Ghost had demanded Christine Daae play the role of the Countess.

_So_, he thought with a smirk, _perhaps I have found the one who dares to dine with the ghost_.

It was during the intermission that he saw it. Just above where Daae stood chatting with her fellow rats there was a glimpse of white. He wasted no time. As quickly and quietly as he could he made his way up the levels, bottle in hand. Through the slight drunken haze he was vaguely surprised by what he saw. The tall, almighty Opera Ghost was not looming over his domain glaring at the stage. He was hunched over, clinging to a beam. Was he in pain? Buquet could hear him gasping. The figure was shaking, slightly, but notably.

He crept up behind him, stumbling once or twice. It wasn't until he was mere feet away that his presence was known.

As the man turned rapidly, Buquet made a lunge, raising the bottle high.

The masked man leapt backward easily and Buquet's swing came down wildly on the floor, smashing the bottle. The glass scattered, embedding itself in his face, chest, and right hand, the liquid seeping into his shirt and wounds. The blood flowed over him, creating the image of a monster equal to the Phantom himself. He cursed, hissing at the burning combination of sweat and alcohol in his cuts.

The Phantom looked at him for a moment, his eyes hard and deadly. He did not move forward, but watched the stagehand calmly. Buquet felt fear creep up his spine at the uncanny resemblance between the man and a vulture watching its prey. Its dying prey.

Buquet still clutched the top of the bottle in his bloody right hand, pointing it forward as he started to rise. His left hand slid along the ground and, glancing down for a moment, he saw a small piece of paper beneath his hand. Even in his disoriented state, the pain seemed to help sober him long enough to see a rather crucial line on the paper.

'Christine'

The stagehand started to chuckle to himself; barely a sound at first, but it grew loud enough that the uppermost opera goers looked about in fright.

The Phantom looked down, mildly perturbed at the man's raving. He was more concerned with people looking up and noticing him, or worse, disturbing the performance and breaking his promise. After a moment of staring, he was furious and horrified to realize that Buquet had his love letter under his hand.

"So, those chorus girls really will do anyone, won't they? Even a _ghost_. Is this your deal? You _bring_ down Carlotta, and she _lies_ down for you-?" His snickering was cut off as the Phantom brought him up by his collar before throwing him against the solid Opera walls.

The Opera Ghost was vaguely aware that despite their noise, no one seemed to be rushing to help. Buquet held up his right hand again, preparing to brandish the broken glass, when he realized it had fallen from his grip, leaving only a few shards embedded in his completely stained palm. It had landed next to the paper, which the Opera Ghost was carefully folding and tucking away.

He stumbled away from where the Ghost had thrown him, crawling on all fours toward the ledges above the stage. He heard quiet, calm footsteps behind him. But if he made it far enough, he could shout and make them look up, make them see… Now bearing numerous injuries, suffering from blood loss, and the effects of alcohol, Buquet knew no restraint in his taunts. "She hits them high notes pretty well, doesn't Miss Daae? Does she wail like that in your bed, too?" He grabbed the beams to steady himself as he tried to rise, turning to face his adversary.

Once more, terror penetrated the haze at the look of pure murder on the Opera Ghost's face. His eyes seemed to burn, his whole body tensed, like one of the big cats about to pounce.

Buquet swallowed painfully, watching as his vision started to blur and consciousness began to fade. If he died here, he'd take the bastard with him. "What's she like between the legs, Phantom? Does she moan in tune? Or aren't you even real enough, _man_ enough to get it up-" He was cut off once more, but this time by the silken strangulation of a Punjab Lasso.

The Phantom pulled the rope tight, feeling supreme satisfaction with the way Buquet's eyes bulged and his tongue seemed to choke him. "Vermin like you have polluted this planet with your very existence for long enough." The Phantom stalked up closer, reeling in the rope like a fishing line until his fist reached the knot. "You will never," he whispered quietly, just beyond Buquet's ear, "insult her, _again_." Buquet's body sagged beneath the rope, his eyes rolling up into his head. The skin on his face started to turn purple, and his facial wounds stopped flowing.

_Only a few more moments_…

An angel's voice suddenly overtook his senses, and his grip on the rope slackened. His head whipped around to face the stage where Christine, his beautiful Christine, was singing, dressed as the Countess!

"_What_?" Erik breathed.

Her voice seemed to float upwards as though carried by a gentle wind; it was so ethereal and beautiful. So angelic, like a sign from heaven.

He blinked rapidly, watching her move gracefully about the stage. She smiled out at the audience, but still continued to glance up toward his hiding places, and her eyes shone brighter.

Her face, twisted in horror came to his mind, her cheeks stained with tears as she ran from him. She would never shine for him again if he did this, and she knew. And part of his mind insisted that she _would_ know. She'd begged him for promises for that very reason.

Buquet's limp, but still living body, felt heavier in his hands. Erik looked down at him in disgust, every angry fiber of him wanting to finish the job, but Christine's voice flowed through him, and he slowly loosened the rope from his neck.

Quickly tucking the lasso back into his sleeve, he dragged the body back toward the shattered bottle. He laid the unconscious man near it, putting his right hand atop the fragments. Buquet was well-known as a drunk. No one would think anything of it.

Erik quickly positioned himself backstage, trying to understand what he had missed. He saw Christine's Pageboy costume on Meg Giry, who pranced about her beaming. Carlotta was off backstage, her maids fanning her and presenting her with more water.

_She collapsed on her own,_ he thought, _w__ith no assistance from me_!

He went back out to lean over the railing, watching Christine as though looking away might cost him his life. He remained there, almost completely still if not for his breathing, for most of the play. Until Christine looked up at him again, and this time he knew she saw him. She gazed at the spot where he stood, and her singing somehow became even grander.

Erik pulled out her letter once more as his emotions, swept in a storm by the last two days, finally started to claim him.

**Hope that everyone enjoyed the chapter! Just a quick word to any readers: If you haven't seen LND, you might want to look into it if you haven't already. Obviously, this story was set up assuming LND happened, and… then, we sorta went back in time, so it didn't… WIBBLY WOBBLY TIMEY WIMEY!**

**Anyway, there were certain character developments made in LND that are going to come up in this, now the Christine at least knows what to expect from people. Certain… aspects may take a different light. So if you get confused in the next few chapters, I apologize! And if at the end of in story explanations you still don't understand, PLEASE feel free to question it via review or message me. I will totally try to explain it better.**


	12. The Patrons Will be Heard

**Merry Christmas! I hope you are all enjoying the holiday season!**

**Special thanks to AlteraPars87, TrashedXandXScattered, TheQueen'sKnight, and abby for their very kind reviews! I am further convincing my family of my insanity by the random squeals which come from my room at various hours.**

**TrashedXandXScattered: Thank you very much! I'm glad that like my story, even though it is canon with a story you don't like. I hope it will continue to entertain you!**

**AlteraPars87: Indeed. For now… (Totally not spoiling anything b/c I honestly haven't decided.)**

**TheQueen'sKnight: Thank you very much! And don't worry, Raoul will be back.**

**Abby: Thank you! I hope I can continue to surprise you! (I make no promises _) And true, he may…**

**Thunderstorm7916: Thanks! I hope you enjoy!**

**LizzieLovesErik: Ramin Karimloo is my favorite man… ever. Thank you and I hope you continue to enjoy!**

**Reverend Squid: I'm glad I answered some questions! Thank you for your compliments!**

**You Are Love: Never fear. Fluff returning quite soon…**

**Without further ado…**

Christine tried, without much success, to hide her triumphant smile as she returned backstage. But after a performance such as this, when everything that could have gone wrong did not, how could she be less than thrilled?

True, she had had her doubts about Carlotta's faint, but upon arriving backstage to retrieve the costume she saw quite clearly what had led to the fall: the corset was entirely too tight. Carlotta's chemise was incredibly wrinkled, having been squished against her skin. There was a noticeable red line going across the woman's breasts and her maids had all but ripped away the corset, leaving her gasping for air. Upon retrieving it, Christine had to stifle an incredulous laugh when seeing that the Diva, who wasn't exactly as thin as she once was, had tried to squeeze herself into one of the smaller corsets at its tightest.

And so the managers, ironically much like the first time, had apologized fervently to the audience, stating that Christine Daae would take over as Countess.

And the performance had continued without another hitch.

Now she was laughing with Meg as they removed the gaudy makeup from her face and Christine from the costume. She needed to change into something more suitable to wear before the crowds. The managers had insisted she give them a proper greeting as the night's Diva. Said crowds were composed mainly of amorous young men, leering elders, and noblemen of questionable ethics. She was pleased, however, to find some ladies who seemed to only want to compliment her singing and ask when she would next perform. She glanced at the managers, who paled and stuttered incoherently.

"I'm not sure, Mesdames. I am, after all, only La Carlotta's understudy." She was amused at the aghast looks she received from the patrons.

"Surely that can be rectified? Our husbands are the patrons at this Opera, and they all agreed that you are the superior singer. Didn't you?" One tall woman looked around as the surrounding men nodded their heads in agreement, frowning at the managers, who swallowed nervously. The same woman spoke again. "Why has La Carlotta not yet been retired? Her voice is well-renowned, certainly, but she could not even last during the performance tonight! Surely, as managers of this Opera house, you can see that Mademoiselle Daae has a higher talent?" More nods and mumbled agreements.

"I never much cared for her singing, to be honest," another woman, an older one, piped up. "Too shrill for my taste. La Daae produces a sound of much finer quality."

Christine smiled gratefully at the group of people, her arms full of roses and flowers. How wonderful it felt to receive praise, to be promoted without the aid of the mysterious Opera Ghost.

"We-We, Mademoiselle Daae is La Carlotta's understudy." Firmin stuttered nervously.

"Quite! And La Carlotta has been at this Opera quite some time!" Andre answered. _Has brought money to this Opera for quite some time_ was the unspoken point.

"Yes, and I'd say it's high time she bowed out gracefully." Countered a young man, who stood protectively over the old woman.

"Indeed," said yet another man, as he leered at Christine a little too closely. "Mademoiselle Daae has a far lovelier talent than the current Diva. And it seems most of your patrons would agree."

"I concur with these gentlemen and ladies, Andre, Firmin."

Christine barely contained a gasp as Raoul appeared in the crowd of people. He gazed at her, smiling softly in greeting. She smiled tremulously in return, a warning shiver going up her spine.

"Mademoiselle Daae far outshines your current Diva. I believe we all agree that she should have the lead permanently in this production." Raoul had come to stand directly in front of Christine, and when he lifted his gaze from her to stare at the managers she couldn't suppress a nervous swallow.

"Th-the lead, Monsieur le Vicomte? But La Carlotta has always had the lead, even before we arrived-" Andre was silenced by a collective groan from the crowd, and even in her alerted state Christine fought the urge to giggle.

"_We _are your patrons, Messieurs. What the audience wants should be what matters," said the original woman.

"And _we_ desire to hear more of Mademoiselle Daae," said yet another man. Christine looked at the crowd around her, eyes wide.

Any Frenchman knew a coup d'état when they saw one.

The managers were stuttering spastically, alternating between phrases of "of course we value your opinion" and "but haven't you all wanted Carlotta?" It was very amusing, and she glanced up to the ceiling, wondering if Erik was watching.

She smiled as she looked out into the crowd, momentarily startling herself to find a fine sheen of tears in her eyes. Was it possible that she could not only have Erik this time, but her career in France as well?

"Thank you, Messieurs, Mesdames, for your praise and support. It means a great deal to me." She smiled, hoping that none of the tears would leak out. The onlookers turned to her, and she knew the closest saw the tears for their expressions changed. "I fear I must take my leave from you now. The hour grows late, and I find I am exhausted. Adieu and merci beaucoup!" She inclined her head and curtsied before turning to walk down the hall. She lowered her head to hide her smile as she heard the audience continue to praise her to the managers.

It was just as she was turning the corner that she heard a voice speak up.

"I will speak with you on this later, Messieurs. I have other matters tonight."

She heard footsteps taking the same hallway as she had. Christine wasted no time breaking into a run, trying to keep all the flowers in her hand. She didn't realize that they left a breadcrumb trail of petals behind her until it was too late. She heard his voice call out her name, but thankfully she was already down a different hallway, and there was no way he could see her.

"Why does no man ever take no for an answer?" she hissed under her breath as she ran, finally reaching her empty dressing room. She threw the flowers down onto the night stand, hurriedly throwing on her robe so she might walk back to the dormitories. But she did not know where she could go at the moment to avoid Raoul.

As she wrung her hands, looking around the room, she heard her name loudly. Raoul could only be a few moments from the room. And to her horror, she finally saw the trail of petals from the door.

So, when she thought she heard his footsteps slowing, she did the only this she could think to do: Christine quite literally dove into the corner where the door would open. On her light dancer's feet, she made it just in time.

The door opened without a knock, she noted a little exasperatedly. _Honestly, Raoul, this is a dressing room! Did it occur to you I might not be presentable?_ She remembered with a touch of irony that he'd made such an entrance at their first reunion and she had not protested it then.

He strode into the room upon seeing it seemingly empty. The door had not opened as much as she would have liked and using every ounce of control she could muster, she gently pulled on the door handle, effectively obscuring her from view. She heard him walking about and dared to look from the gap between the wall and the door. He was standing at the vanity, picking up one of her bouquets. He turned around again, causing her to flinch back at the movement. She heard a sigh, then retreating footsteps.

She held her breath as he took the doorknob and closed the door, praying he would not find her. When the door closed and his footsteps retreated to nothing, she exhaled loudly, running her left hand through her hair.

"My anxiety isn't going anywhere anytime soon, is it, Father?" she asked the quiet room.

She got her answer in the form of agitated whispers as she returned to the dormitories.

"Luc says he was all bloody, like he'd beaten himself up."

"I caught a glimpse of him when they carried him into the back! His face was pretty bad, and his shirt was covered in the stuff!"

"He's gonna get himself killed next time! He could've fallen to his death!"

Christine frowned at the words, turning to see a few girls chattering nervously on a bed as they braided each other's hair. Meg was among them, but as she saw Christine she bounded up and took her hands.

"Did you hear what happened during the performance, Christine? All the stagehands were whispering about it!" Christine looked at her blankly, while inside her mind screamed in warning. "Oh, it was awful! Buquet was nearly killed! He got himself- Christine?" Meg reached out to catch Christine's upper arms as the soprano started to sink, her knees giving out. She in turn reached up to clasp Meg's elbows, trying to steady herself. "Christine! What is it? You're so pale, like you've seen a ghost!" Meg asked, her voice rising slightly.

_A ghost of a past I'd hoped never to see again._

"What happened to Buquet, Meg?" Christine surprised Meg and herself at the steadiness of her voice.

"Christine, here, sit down on the bed." Meg guided them over to Christine's bed, sitting her down gently. Christine clasped her hands together, trying to steady both her trembling limbs and her heartbeat.

"What happened, Meg?" She finally asked, once the shaking had stopped.

"Well, I-I don't really know, Christine. No one does." Meg shrugged. "The stagehands found his body sprawled across a shattered bottle of gin, so you can probably guess what happened. I even saw him drinking the stuff during the intermission."

"But, but Meg, you said he was nearly killed! His passing out doesn't mean-"

"Well he _wasn't_ just passed out. He was completely unconscious and his face, right hand, and chest had bloody cuts from where the glass hit him. One of the stagehands was saying he must've wandered up there in a haze, fell over, and smashed the bottle. But can you believe this! He didn't pass out from the alcohol, they said!" Meg leaned forward conspiratorially, an awed grin on her face.

Christine felt sick. "What made him pass out, Meg?

"The _blood loss_. I didn't see him, but he was covered in blood and alcohol! So the pig nearly killed himself up there!" Meg stopped again as Christine exhaled a heavy breath. "Christine? What is wrong? You act as though this is some horrible tragedy. The stagehands said he'll live, though they doubt even the managers will overlook this. He'll probably be out of a job, especially with the audience complaints."

Christine felt yet another warning go up her spine. "What complaints?"

"Oh, some of the patrons in the highest boxes said they heard maniacal laughter coming from the scaffolds, around the area where his body was found. Giselle said while we were getting changed they came and spoke to the managers about it, saying it disturbed the performance for them." Meg actually giggled. "Lord knows what he was doing up there under the influence of that foul stuff."

Christine stood, taking a deep breath and attempting to fight the rising panic.

_The stories Buquet told, the disrespect he showed him, nearly killed in the scaffolds, maniacal laughter_...

"I'm going out for a bit, Meg." She stooped to get her coat.

"W-what? Christine, it's so late already, and you're not even dressed. Christine!"

Christine paid her no heed, merely calling a goodbye of her shoulder as she went to the door, buttoning the coat and tying a scarf around her neck.

She had to find him. They were supposed to be together tonight. She'd seen him in the scaffolds, gazing at her like he couldn't believe she existed.

Well, the feeling was mutual.

She went down the halls, heading briskly for the Prima's dressing room without thinking.

But as she approached, Christine realized what a foolhardy notion that was as the Diva was currently moaning and wailing about the injustice of her collapse and Christine's massacre of the opera.

_I cannot take the mirror. Where then shall we meet_?

She spun around, walking blindly. He had to be nearby. He was always nearby. But most likely, he would not reveal himself until she was far from any other person, and where he had a trap door.

She huffed a humorless breath of laughter at fate's twisted game as she broke into a run.

Christine Daae would flee to the roof tonight after all.

* * *

><p>As she opened the door to the roof the first thing she felt was the cold air whipping around her. She closed the door in a hurry, turning and wrapping her arms around herself.<p>

It had not been like this when she and Raoul had fled. The night had been calm then, a stark contrast to the turmoil of the Opera house.

She walked forward, looking around and squinting in the biting wind. Nervous, she called out, hoping he would hear. Hadn't he always heard?

"Erik?" The wind carried her voice and she feared it would be lost. "Erik? _Mon ange_, are you here? Please, come out! I long to see you!"

She waited alone for a few more moments, fearing he had not followed, that something awful had happened, and that he would not come to her.

"_Chris-tine_." Her heart leapt.

**Aaaaand that's where I'm capping it for now. Stay tuned for next chapter, when it's so fluffy we are in a cotton candy castle in the clouds playing with puppies… Ok maybe not that fluffy but still, there'll be fluff!**

**Thanks again to all my great reviews! I'm especially happy so many people got my DW reference!**


	13. An Impossible Sin

**Merry Christmas everyone. I hope you like fluff for a present.**

She turned around, finding his face of white against the dark stone of the Opera house. His cape enshrouded his body, creating the perfect image of the Phantom.

Not the man she was interested in speaking with.

She strode over to him and, despite the circumstances of their present and the horrible truths of the past, she could not bring herself to fear him.

Even so, when Christine came to a stop directly in front of him she could not tear her gaze from his mask. His mask, always pristine and glowing with an eerie light, was speckled with a few small, but distinctive dark spots.

Christine finally tore her eyes from the mask to meet his, both of them ignoring the stinging wind and howl of the approaching storm. Erik's eyes, while still impossibly green and deep, possessed a depth of emotion that made her heart feel weak. He made no sound, and merely extended his right hand to hers. His eyes had changed to pleading and she knew no hesitation.

She let him lead her down a dark pathway, hidden near the statue of Apollo. Idly, she wondered if that had been where he called to her the first time. Another question she had never and could never ask.

* * *

><p>The long trek down into the cellars was spent in silence, for she could not bear to voice her concerns before he was comfortable, before they were secure in his domain. He grip on her never faltered, and he never looked back. She took it as a good sign that unlike before he was confident in her presence, in her desire to be with him.<p>

When they reached the boat, she tried to hide her stare at watching his movements; the strong strokes of the oar in the water, the way his muscles clenched and unclenched. Yet again, she remembered that long ago night and felt a blush color her cheeks. She swallowed slightly and turned away from him to watch the approaching lights.

Erik helped her climb out of the boat, as gentlemanly as ever, but it was all she could do not to stare at his mask, at those telltale crimson spots. He removed his cape with the usual flourish, hanging it carefully before turning to face her once more. His face was stone, jaw set and firm with his chin raised so he looked down upon her as if ready to discipline a pupil. His eyes, however, told another story.

Christine walked up to him, her hands still fisted on the edges of her coat. He might be used to the frigid cellars, but she was not. She released the fabric with her left hand and let her fingers tap on his mask. He stiffened, eyes flashing. She held his gaze, letting her fingers trail to the edge and start to tug. She gave Erik ample opportunity to refuse, to pull away. He did not.

She brought the mask down from his face, lingering on his visible scars just long enough so he knew she was not disturbed before looking at the mask once more. Her lips quivered at the sight of blood, so close to her fingertips. She folded in her lips and bit down, trying to cease the shaking. She could not risk appearing weak.

Finally, when she looked up at him again, his face a wall of stone. She did not reach out to him, not yet. He would not welcome it. "What happened, Erik?"

* * *

><p>Erik looked her full in the face, trying to contain his struggle. To tell her the truth, the entire murderous truth, would surely drive her away. And he hadn't killed the bastard, so why bother frightening her?<p>

"Do not lie to me, Erik." He blinked, eyebrows furrowing. "I can see it in your eyes. It's like you're trying to come up with something, trying to decide whether or not to reveal everything. You will _not_ lie to me now. I've rather had enough of lies." Her words, an accusation for a crime he'd thought forgiven, burned in his heart.

"Very well, my dear. Are you ready for the whole grisly truth? Every gory detail? Very well! You shall have it!" He leaned in close to her, hands clasped behind his back. Did he truly want to frighten her, to chase her away? No, but were his anger and fury, his frustration and despair at the possibility undoing him? Yes. "I was minding my own damned business about the catwalks, a little cross at the Little Giry's insinuations, truth be told, when our lovely friend the drunken stagehand tried to kill me." He grinned in satisfaction at her wide, startled eyes. "I was… otherwise distracted at the time, so I, the Opera Ghost, was actually almost caught unaware when the filth tried to smash his little bottle over my head." He was confused, though didn't show it, when her eyes started to rake over his face and neck. His heart swelled painfully when he realized she was looking for any wounds on his person. "I quite easily evaded the drunken fool, but made yet another error." He pulled out her letter with his right hand, flicking it at her like a disk. Startled, she reached out at caught it, recognizing it as her own upon opening it.

"You see, _my dear_, you may not be aware of it, but I… I…" his lips thinned into a line as he fought with himself. "Your little letter has not left my person since I received it this morning. And in my possession, I must have read it more than a dozen times. Note the creases, you'll see I'm telling the truth." He grit his teeth, noticing her eyes did not hold the disturbed look he suspected, but one of… He couldn't name it. "And the _pig_ got a hold of it when I dropped it. Did I mention I was holding it at the time of the attack?" Erik's voice had taken on a sinister, mocking tone. He watched her close her eyes slowly, and a wet sheen coated them. "Well, he saw your lovely signature and concluded our relationship was one of prostitution. Charming, isn't it?" Her eyes flew open in disgust, and a part of him withered, for even in his rage, he was devastated to see how the thought of them together repulsed her and prayed it was merely a reaction to the suggested arrangement.

"He proceeded to insult you rather thoroughly and I, in turn, proceeded to injure the man rather passionately." He grinned at nodded his head at her paled skin. "Oh, it felt _wonderful_. Every, single, blow, was so deserved, it felt like divine justice." The tears spilled out over her cheeks, and Erik didn't realize his voice was border line hysterical. "And you know all those stories he told about my lasso, Christine? My magic lasso? Well, Monsieur Buquet must have felt so very _honored_ to be on its receiving end! No no!" Erik grasped her shoulders, keeping his gaze with hers cried. "You wanted the whole truth! You will hear it. Buquet had cuts all about him from when the bottle smashed on the wood, and he was _covered_ in blood! Not to mention the bruises and welts from my abuse. And when his face started to turn purple, and his wounds stopped flowing, triumph was running through my veins! I was unmarred, unscathed, while he could've fallen off a building!" He was shaking, certain she felt it.

"But you did not kill him." Christine's statement was so quiet, so firm, that his grip loosened.

"No, I did not." Erik whispered tightly.

"Why not, if it felt so very right, Erik?" Her hands had risen to hold his and squeezed, never trying to remove him. He swallowed, unwilling to part with this truth. Surely, if she had not already seen it, his obsession would become all too clear, and she would flee. Her right hand came to cup his unblemished cheek. "Why not, Erik?"

The words exploded out of him. Surely he looked deranged!

"Because just as he was about to die, I heard you sing!" he wailed it, shouting and closing his eyes, unable to bear her reaction. "I heard you sing, your voice moved through me like a salve, and I _could not do it_! I could not kill a man while you stood, so close, and sang so beautifully. It would've been a sin worse than the Devil can tempt!" His grip on her tightened and he was disgusted to realize he'd wet her hand with his own tears. Her thumbed rubbed them away softly. "I moved his body back to the bottle fragments, making it all look like an accident of his own doing. No one will believe the Opera Ghost attacked him and left him alive. But, if he should remember your connection to me…" He trailed off, the implication all too clear.

Erik opened his eyes to look at her, preparing himself for rejection, for dismissal. Anything but the tender look in her eyes. "You did not kill him." She brought her other hand to his mangled cheek, wiping away the tears there. "You stopped yourself, be it by my voice or otherwise."

She took both his hands in hers, removing them from her shoulders. Erik felt his throat clench, but relax when she merely led him to his throne chair, sitting him upon it. His eyes went very wide when she sat upon its left arm, cupping his right cheek once more. She was higher than him now, and looked down upon him so kindly he felt he would die.

"You're impossible," he whispered, and she frowned, confused. "You cannot exist; this- this cannot be real. I've gone mad. My last shred of sanity has fled…" He could not continue, not when she smiled at him like that, as though she knew something he didn't.

"I assure you, I'm very real. _This is real_." Erik continued to look at her in shock, and he felt a slight giggle run through her. She leaned her face toward his forehead, resting her right cheek against it. He bit his lip, his breath hitching embarrassingly. She turned her head slightly, so that her lips were laid sideways against his skin. She exhaled in what he was sure was contentment, and his body sagged in his chair at the sheer bliss of the moment. "Do not tell me that this isn't real." She whispered, her breath fanning down his cheek. "If I awaken elsewhere, and this has all been some wonderful fantasy, I shall die on the spot."

Erik's arms came around her of their own accord, wrapping her tightly in his embrace. At the thought of her dying it seemed a great weight fell on his chest. He pulled her to him more forcefully, almost causing her to fall until she boldly slid, sitting herself in his lap with her legs hanging off the opposite arm.

"Imp." He muttered, laying his forehead down on hers. He was too worn, emotionally and physically, to be properly shocked at her actions and closeness. But oh, it all felt so right.

She giggled and moved her head to reside on his shoulder, her nose barely grazing his neck. He twitched slightly with the thrill of it. Tentatively, he laid his head back as well, leaving his lips on the top of her forehead.

Once more they stayed together, still within each other's embrace aside for Erik's fingers trailing ever so lightly in her hair and her left thumb stroking the right side of his neck just below the deformity. Neither of them quite realized that they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms until they both woke with a start forty-five minutes later when Erik's living room clock chimed midnight.


	14. Tick Tock

**Hello! Sorry I took so long! Holiday stress!**

**You are Love: You're welcome! I hope you'll keep reading the fluffiness to come!**

**TrashedXandXScattered: Thank you! I'm glad Erik can hold his own, aren't you!**

**Thunderstorm7916: Oh my! Unhealthy addictions! That's the highest compliment a writer can receive! I feel like J.K.R… Hehe Thank you very much!**

**Lady Urquentha: Thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy it!**

Christine sat at the vanity in her underground room, still flushed from the incident. She's been so comfortable in his arms; she didn't even realize she was asleep. What's worse was that if it weren't for that damned clock, they might've stayed that way all night.

She frowned sadly, recalling that she never had gotten to spend a night in his arms. He probably hadn't slept at all, that night. Just left her…

Christine shook her head, trying to dispel the unpleasant memories. She would make new ones now, and her life, _their life_, would be blissful together.

She giggled again, recalling his surprise upon waking.

IIIIIII

Erik sat on his bed, head in his hands.

He'd made a complete fool of himself, in front of Christine, in his home, for the _second_ time.

He stood, gritting his teeth in his self-loathing. The piano beckoned, its ivory keys and polished wood as much a siren as the young women in the bedroom.

As he strode back into the main room, his eyes drifted to his throne chair, and his lip curled in disgust and humiliation.

_Dong!_

_Erik started, eyes flying open to stare at his clock. He couldn't understand his surroundings. He'd fallen asleep at his piano before, but never in his throne…_

_Dong!_

_As he contemplated all this, he became aware of a solid substance shifting in his lap. He turned his head down to be met with a riotous mess of curls._

_Dong!_

_The curls titled back as she lifted her head toward his, violet blue eyes blinked up at him, startled and yet drooping with sleep. Her mouth was parted slightly in surprise._

_Dong!_

_Her eyes traveled over his face, before focusing on his lips in a most disconcerting manner._

_Dong!_

_She leaned forward, her lips approaching his._

_Dong!_

_Unfortunately, Erik wasn't prepared for such nearness while in such a state of sleep induced shock._

_Christine let out a shriek as she was deposited promptly onto the floor, landing on her rear with a painful thump._

_Dong!_

_Erik looked down at her with wide eyes, realizing his mistake. His mouth opened and closed comically, like a fish out of water. He certainly felt like one._

_Dong!_

_Christine let out another cry of surprise when he scooped her into his arms, cradling as he'd done their first night together._

_Dong!_

_God, was it really only last night, he thought underneath the embarrassment._

"'_Oh God! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Christine! Are you alright? Oh, God, I didn't mean to- Here!"_

_Dong!_

_She looked up at him, startled, as he rushed down to her bedroom, entering swiftly and setting her down on the bed._

_Dong…_

_She blinked up at him uncertainly, and he remained stooped over her for a split second, lost in her eyes, her endless eyes…_

_Dong…_

_He jerked back, focusing on the façade of the all-powerful, never faltering Opera Ghost. She stared at him still, and he forced himself to do no more than incline his head slightly, barely whispering his goodnight._

He landed at his piano with a thump, glaring at the polished keys as though they'd cause him some unforgivable offense.

His plan to always appear the dark, mysterious, debonair Opera Ghost really could not have gone any worse.

IIIIII

Christine put down her brush, her fingers entwining in her curls to form a braid.

So fast. Everything had happened so fast, how could he be expected to react better? He had not had ten years to long for her, not knowing whether or not she was alive and well…

Sighing heavily, Christine resigned herself to the fact that she would have, for the present, to take things much slower.

_I've been given back my life, my love, my everything. I do not need to rush things._

And yet, she could not shake a strange sense of foreboding, as though she was missing something. Forgetting something crucial, lost in the haze of her new reality.

She thought for many minutes, which stretched into an hour, of her present, her impossible, illogical, but altogether real present.

She had salvaged her relationship with her Angel, at one of its most crucial points. Erik believed that she accepted him. The most important task was done.

Buquet had been saved, at least from the Phantom's noose if not his wrath. There would be no murder investigation, no suspicions.

_Don Juan Triumphant_ was a remaining possibility. Erik might still choose to have it performed. And if he did, he might still choose to take Piangi's place. But that, she was reasonably sure, would not occur for some time now. Erik was not even finished with it, and there'd be no long months apart for him to work on it.

Raoul was a remaining problem. His discovery of her had rekindled in him, as it had in her, the joy of an old friend, and the strange euphoria of childlike innocence. Together, he would have been content to stay in that state of ignorance. She had sometimes wished they could.

But as she looked around her elaborate bedroom, assembled entirely for her, and heard the faint fluttering notes of a piano beyond her door, she smiled softly before blowing out her candle.

How could ignorance be any more blissful than this?

She did not realize, as she slipped into sleep, that the ignorance she fought to remove had fallen over her, trapping for like a spider with its web. She lay content in its alluring embrace, while the reality she strived to keep played out in the world above, uncertainty blowing about with the wind.

**Sorry it's so short! I've been really busy lately. I promise a better update next time!**

**Sorry if the **_**Dongs!**_** Got annoying! I was trying to establish just how fast all of this happened. As in, the waking and dumping all happened pretty fast.**

**Any ideas as to what it is Christine's worried about?**


	15. Misplaced Detail

The following morning was far more uneventful, considering. Christine woke to the sound of the piano playing with such softness she wondered if it was meant to gently bring her to the waking world.

She ventured out into Erik's stone abode, creeping quietly in the hopes of catching him unaware, lost in his world of music. She was not disappointed.

Christine came around the corner on her toes, watching Erik's back as he hunched slightly over the piano, heading bobbing with the tune and hands sensually flowing across the keys, slow and leisurely. She could not see it, but was certain that his eyes were closed and his lips moved slightly with the words and notes in his head.

She crept closer to him, planning to lay a hand on his shoulder, when Christine remembered the last time she had snuck up on him while he was composing. She stopped a few feet away and contented herself with watching him a few moments more. Leaning against the wall on her right side, she smiled softly. It wasn't until one landed on her crossed arms that Christine realized there were tears running down her face.

She inhaled shakily, just loud enough for him to hear, and he whipped around, a trace of anger printed on his face.

IIIIII

Meg Giry woke with a start as the ballet rats began to ready themselves for the day. Her hair was mussed, never having completed its braid, and her back was sore from having slept in an uncomfortable position.

Her uncomfortable position was due to the fact that she'd attempted to fight sleep until she passed out, waiting for Christine to return safely.

Meg winced as she arched her back, stretching her hands over her head and yawning. She made a cursory glance around the room, noting with some relief that most of the girls were only waking themselves and she was not late.

But as she rose, her thoughts of the previous night returned, and to her horror, Christine was not at her bed or anywhere else in the room.

And she was frightened, frightened of a good many things. Christine's sudden transformation, the way her personality had simply changed after her debut performance. The way she would disappear at a moment's notice, never giving an explanation. How could she possibly want to reject a member of the nobility, a Vicomte, should he ask for her? Christine seemed to have become an entirely different person, and Meg had to fight the anxiety that clawed at her.

What had caused this drastic change? What made Christine carry herself and look at the world as if she had unlocked some of its mysteries? But Meg's most fear filled thought was that it was not a question of what, but who.

IIIIIIII

"It's absolutely intolerable! We're lucky they didn't demand some sort of refund!" Firmin yelled, glaring at the stagehand. He was truly a loathsome, yet pitiful sight. His right hand was heavily bandaged, his face swollen almost comically, and he was forced to sit at an odd angle so as not to irritate his chest wounds.

"Firmin, calm yourself. We haven't suffered anything, yet." Firmin gave his partner a frustrated look before turning to his liquor cabinet, pouring himself a strong brandy. Andre glared at Buquet then, clasping his hands behind his back. "What exactly were you thinking, Monsieur Buquet, to be so heavily intoxicated on the job?" Buquet did not respond, but he was not expected to do so. "It is inexcusable, and the ruckus you caused damaged property and disturbed patrons."

Firmin turned to Buquet again, setting down his glass forcefully. "Monsieur Buquet, you are hereby released from our employ. You will kindly gather any items you can claim as your own, under the eyes of security, and evacuate the premises."

Both managers were fairly disturbed as the man started to laugh. "Oh, believe me, Messieurs, you don't want to be letting go of me just yet."

"We have an Opera house to run, and no times for pathetic excuses-"

"My excuses are facts, and you'll want to hear 'em. Startin' with, I think I can help you with a little pest control problem."

IIIIIII

Erik rushed over to her, his trepidation at being forcibly de-masked once more vanishing quickly. She had tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks. Why?

"What is wrong?" he whispered, moving his hands up as if to cup her cheeks. He balked before getting too near, fingers stretched toward him. He tried to make her look at him, but she closed her eyes, shaking her head gently. Her hands came up to hold his, clasping their fingers in the air. They remained that way for a few moments before she jerked beneath him, opening her eyes and pulling away. Glancing at the grandfather clock, she gasped.

"I must go! Rehearsal begins soon!" She wiped her hand over her face, attempting to shake away any remaining sleep from her eyes.

Erik looked so confused, and she felt guilt rise up. But she could not explain her sorrow, could not find the words. And even if she could, she would've sounded madder than anyone had ever accused the Opera Ghost.

_I'm forgetting something important from my past life. Something crucial has been erased. I've forgotten it in my mad, ravenous desire to right things between you and me. And every time I see you, I'm caught between wanting to laugh and weep, kiss you and beg for your forgiveness for a betrayal I've not yet committed._

So Christine did not say any of these things. She merely looked at her love for a few moments longer before mumbling an apology and sprinting to change. He was fully dressed and ready when she returned to the main room, and they spoke no more, only held hands lightly as he returned her to the surface world.

IIIIIIIII

Rehearsals were, as Christine had feared, dismal. Carlotta's return to full breathing capacity had Christine bumped once more and she tried not to roll her eyes as Carlotta butchered every cadenza.

She noticed that the managers would not make eye contact with her, and she pondered the remarks made by the patrons the night before. They had praised her so thoroughly, yet the managers still resisted promoting her. She supposed that followed with their actions from the previous life. Despite her stellar reviews and the group of admirers that had started to frequent the opera, the managers had always insisted that Carlotta was the true star.

Carlotta once more shrieked and raved about Christine's ineptitude, and Christine fought to maintain composure. It wasn't as though she let herself be hurt by anything Carlotta said. She simply disliked her annoying voice constantly penetrating her ear.

It did not help her mood that she and Erik had not parted as sweetly as their previous encounters. He had merely inclined his head before vanishing into his precious darkness once more, and she had gone to practice that day with a weight on her heart. They had not spoken since.

And underneath everything, she knew, _she knew_ that she had forgotten something. Something from her vanished existence that had hinged upon the events that unfolded here, and its loss made her anxious to no end.

As a rehearsal came to a close, Meg darted forward, grasping her hand and demanding they speak. Christine had disappeared again last night, wouldn't talk to her, wasn't making sense, and was so changed the last week. Meg went on and on as Christine tried to maintain a straight face while removing her costume. "Christine, would you look at me!" Meg had finally raised her voice too high, and Christine looked, glaring at her.

"Will you calm yourself, Meg? You're working yourself into a frenzy over nothing. You act as though I've done something criminal." Christine walked away from her, hanging the costume neatly. She tried to keep her hands busy as Meg retaliated. She had to, because she was getting horrible visions of the future once more.

"You've changed! You could be committing crimes for all I know! Why do you suddenly never talk to me? You've run from every conversation we've had the last week!"

Christine turned on her then, angry at the false accusation.

"I did not run from your suggestions about Ra-the Vicomte! I listened to your opinions, and because I do not share them, you think me mad and make excuses for why I'm wrong." She looked at the young girl, trying to lessen her annoyance at the angry tears in Meg's eyes. "You are like a sister to me, Meg. In more ways than one. And while sisters do share secrets and their thoughts, it is not unheard of for one to retain some for herself." Christine sighed and looked down. Her friendship with Meg had always been so strong. When she thought about it, however, she and Meg had never truly been friends as adults. That was when they'd parted ways. And how could she be expected to return to such a relationship with her murderer? With the woman who was willing to drown-

"Friends tell each other when something is wrong!" Meg retorted, breaking Christine from the difficult thoughts that plagued her. "And something is wrong with you. You act distant, as though you are always focused on something else. You reject the companionship of an old friend, you've insulted people, and you never used to raise you voice you were so shy! And the other night, all your ranting about the Angel of Music! What am I supposed to think, Christine?"

Christine shook her head, moving past Meg to her bed. It was late, she was tired, and had another performance tomorrow and the day after. This could wait.

"I'm going to sleep, Meg. We have performances. I will talk with you after the last performance on Saturday, alright?" She heard Meg scoff and head to her own bed. "I give you my word." She mumbled quietly, sure Meg had heard her.

**Sorry it took me so long! I promise a better chapter next time! This one was just to… establish some things.**


	16. Little Giry's Interrogation

**I have a question for my readers. In some of my unpublished work, I have gotten a little more profane and vulgar, as comes out in this chapter. That's just how I always imagine Buquet acting, although I won't go to the extremes of some other phics I've read. Is anyone going to be offended with this?**

**Reverend Squid: Thank you so much for reviewing all those chapters! I'm glad you liked them! As to your concerns, only time will tell…**

**Darkwysper: Thank you, I hope you continue to enjoy the story and want more!**

**AngelicMinx: Thank you! I hope to update sooner next time.**

**Portergirl321: Thank you for the compliments! I hope you stay curious!**

**PrimaDonna24601: Sorry to keep you waiting! Hope you like this one!**

Erik did not appear before her very often, but she did not have much time to herself. Christine had the distinct impression that she was being watched, and swore she caught the stagehands looking down at her. The strange part was that it was not just Buquet, as more and more of them seemed to watch her move. If she wasn't so used to the contemptuous gazes of Raoul's friends it might have unduly unnerved her.

Another condition she hadn't expected, which the cast seemed to share, was Buquet's continued employment despite his actions and injuries. So far as anyone knew, he'd suffered not even a dock in pay.

Christine's only consolation was that she could at least feel Erik near her frequently, if only for a moment at a time. It was as if he was occasionally saying hello, waving at her from a distance, but never drawing near. It hurt her greatly, and troubled her, as she believed that besides their rather awkward parting, he was not angry with her.

The managers avoided her like the plague. She attempted to bid them good morning and evening when she saw them, and they merely stuttered before bowing away. She wished that she could ask Erik about it, see if he knew anything.

Meg, on the other hand, seemed constantly ready to badger her. Any time Christine returned to the stage after doing menial tasks, such as lacing a costume, correcting her makeup, or reviewing the script, Meg was looking at her. It brought her ugly confrontation with Meg on the pier to her mind all too often, and made it all the more difficult to look at the ballerina with the love she'd once had.

The five days until her promised explanation to Meg drew to a close, and without further meetings with Erik, she removed her costume and walked toward the dorms. She went slowly, her steps quiet, as she once more pondered what to say to her old friend.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard low voices from a closed door, all distinctly male. She paid it little heed, other than to wonder what business so many of them could be up to at once.

She stopped and stared at the closed door when she distinctly heard one man say "Daae."

Christine lightly walked to the wall, listening closely. She and Meg had often eavesdropped on closed doors in their mischief. She had quite a talent for it.

"…two weeks of vigilance, and not one of your claims has proved true, Monsieur. We've had all these men slacking from their duties to keep an eye on this girl, and she hasn't been seen doing anything out of the ordinary."

"You've been very clever, Buquet, but it's over now. You will leave this Opera house tonight. Why in God's name we ever listened to you-"

"You're both fools!" Buquet roared. "Of course he hasn't tried anything! You've alerted the entire damn building to keep an eye on the whore! He has ears! He no doubt heard-"

"Or," said Firmin, she believed, "You've simply been trying to cling to employment, and wanted to further conjure up stories of ghosts. Claiming that _he_ was responsible for your injuries and the damage, when every piece of evidence points to the contrary."

"I was attack-!"

Buquet's yell was cut off by another voice, one she did not know by heart.

"We found the bottle smashed all over you! You reeked of the stuff! You have _always_ blamed others for your own mistakes! Carlotta is nearly hit on the stage, but no, it must've been a ghost! Nothing is ever your fault! But to go so far as to blame Daae… Who hear can even begin to believe the claims he's made?"

She thought she heard a good deal of scoffing from the other men in the room.

"Enough." Andre's voice was firm. "Mademoiselle Daae has been found guiltless of the claims you've made. She has returned to the dorms every evening, and was seen leaving them every morning. Furthermore, Madame Giry maintains an extremely tight schedule. When exactly do you believe the girl has snuck off to "pay" the Opera Ghost as you suggest?"

Buquet started swearing profusely. Christine blushed slightly at the vulgarity.

"That damned bastard and his painted whore are playing you all for saps! You haven't given it enough time! I was nearly slaughtered in your Opera house! Would you believe it were an accident if I'd been dropped onto the stage a bloodied carcass?"

Christine steadied her breathing at the memory he conjured.

"You are fired. That is the end of the discussion. Do not allow us to discover your presence at this Opera house again."

Christine fled as silently as she could upon hearing more movement in the room, indicating that its occupants were leaving.

IIIIIII

She was panting slightly as she entered the dormitories. She shook her head as she approached her bed, eyes wide and staring.

Buquet had actually told the managers of his theory. He'd told them she was, was prostituting herself to Erik in exchange for a career. "That _bastard_." She muttered, fists clenched in her rage.

"Christine?"

She turned around, her gaze still angry, and saw Meg looking at her, arms crossed.

"Yes, Meg?"

Meg raised an eyebrow at her, glaring back.

"It's Saturday. We have no performances till Monday. And you gave me your word you would talk. So," she spread her arm out to the bed, sitting on it cross legged. "Start talking."

Christine looked at her and, for a brief moment, saw the Meg of the bleak future; the girl who felt cast aside, angry, and tired of being denied what she wanted.

"I'll tell you what _I_ deem appropriate, Meg, nothing more." She sat down, leaning against the wall. Meg continued to stare at her, and Christine raised her eyebrows in expectation.

"Alright, since you're going to be stubborn, fine, I'll ask the questions. First of all, where have you been disappearing to these last few nights?"

Christine sighed, and began to speak.

IIIII

By the end of their conversation, Meg was appeased in her need for knowledge of Christine's personal life, even if she claimed Christine hadn't told her enough. What she really should have objected to was the fact that most of what she was told wasn't quite true. Meg was not told of her late night journeys with the Phantom, or their budding romance. Meg was told a more childlike version.

According to Christine, she had met someone, who had recently expressed some romantic interest in her. No, she would not tell Meg who he was, because he did not wish the knowledge of their courtship to be public, nor did she. Meg had looked ready to cry.

Meg was also informed that under no circumstances was she to attempt to force the Vicomte's presence on Christine again, as she did not wish to upset her suitor by making him believe her unfaithful. The Vicomte was not to be seen as a potential suitor under any circumstances, and Meg was so upset it'd appear that Madame Giry had just forbade _Meg_ from seeing him.

As to Christine's disappearances, wouldn't Meg like a moment, or even a few hours, to herself with all the upheaval happening in the Opera? Yes, Christine had met up with her suitor a few times, but no, they relationship was not up for discussion.

After talking for about an hour, Meg finally ceased her questions, and allowed them both the sleep they needed.

Christine fell asleep after many minutes of restless contemplation. Erik had avoided her for almost two weeks. Had he suspected she would tell Meg the truth about who he was and compromise him? Or had it been to protect them both, knowing the claims that Buquet had made to the managers? She prayed fervently that it was the latter as she drifted off to sleep.

An angel checked in on her once, feeling slightly reassured that at least one nuisance was over.

**Ugh. I'm sorry this chapter was kind of crappy. I was trying to get some things established, and clear some things with Meg. Things are going to start moving a bit quicker now. I hope everyone enjoys their week, and that I can get another update in soon!**


	17. Little Lost Boy

**Here's a little tidbit! Sorry it isn't much. Classes have started up again, and they give me little time. And the time I get is occupied with writer's block. So.**

The corridors simply would not end. They were mirrors of each other, never differentiating, never changing; always the cold brown and gray stone of the Opera house catacombs, stretching on as he ran. He'd been running for so long. He couldn't even remember what he was running from. Or, was he the one running after something? He could not recall. He only knew he had to keep running.

He felt a peculiar burning in his chest, the cold of the tunnel straining on his lungs. His heart was throbbing painfully, and his eyes burned. His cheeks were slick with moisture, causing the cold to sting more thoroughly. The peculiar sounds echoing around the walls were disturbing, like tormented wails, and he wished they would cease.

He didn't currently have the mental capacity to realize he was sobbing.

Finally, he thought he saw something down the tunnel. A small dot, standing still in the labyrinth. He called out to it, commanding it to stop, to wait. But despite his efforts, it remained out of reach.

He voice echoed down the passage, throwing his cry back in his face. It sounded distorted, warped, and he could not recognize his own words.

He continued after it, the only thought in his head being that he needed to reach it, needed to catch up before it was too late.

The small boy down the path seemed to be crying, hunched over holding his torso. His sobs echoed toward him, and he ran faster still.

Finally, as if the spell was broken, he seemed to gain on him. The boy looked up, his tear stained face sending a knife to his heart. He recognized that boy. He was certain of it, but he barely knew the child. Why did he mean so much?

"No one wants me," the boy whimpered. "I matter too, don't I?" He ran faster, sobs turning into gasps for breath as the halls seemed to shrink in around them. The boy shook his head, shoulder's heaving as he cried. His white clothing seemed to shimmer, until it became transparent. The boy's face began to fade, his cries grew fainter. "I want my mother…" He pleaded pitifully.

Erik dove forward, finally having reached him, his fingers mere inches from grasping his shoulder.

But the boy was gone, and Erik crashed into nothingness.

He awoke with a start, sweat drenching his body and his face wet with tears. Erik gasped, his breath coming hard and heart beating fast.

In his disorientation, he moved his head from side to side, staring at the ceiling from corner to corner.

He did not notice the word he kept breathing amongst his pants and choked sobs.

"Gustave… Gustave…"


	18. Cordially Invited

**Hello! I'm horribly sorry that I haven't updated in so long. I'm trying to get these up faster, but college says no. So, I hope you all enjoy the fluff!**

**Thank you to all my reviewers and your patience with me!**

She would not let him go.

The ferocity of her grasp shocked him. He'd only maintained his distance for less than two weeks, and for her own good! Yet she clung to him like he'd been gone for years.

Admittedly, he clung to her just as tightly.

Christine's hands were currently beneath his dark cape, palms flat against his back. His cloak flowed over them, enshrouding them both in a cocoon. Her head rested against his heart and his arms were wrapped around her shoulders, her curls serving as his pillow.

"I'm sorry I did not come to you. I refused to give them the slightest inclination that Buquet spoke the truth."

He felt her slight nod against his chest. "I know. I overheard the managers when they fired Buquet. But Erik," she tilted her face toward his, worrying creasing her brow. "The idea is out there now. Anything I do, any action you take, they will remember Buquet's theory." She pressed her face against him again.

"I would not worry about that, my dear. I learn from my mistakes, as well as the foolishness of others. Should anyone guess at our amicable relationship, I shall take certain steps to ensure they keep it to themselves."

Christine shivered, the reaction a combination of the cold and the ice of his words. But unlike the other times he made such threats, she did not protest. Not if they were against people who threatened their safety as Buquet had.

_How dark have I become? Will I continue down this path?_

"Come, I shall return you to your room. We mustn't allow the Little Giry to have another panic attack, must we?" He brought them down silently from the scaffolds, setting her away from him with hands at her shoulders.

When he'd seen her leaving her room during the night, he'd been unable to resist going to her. The mediocre days that had separated them were endless, especially over something as foolish of a drunken stagehand.

She had expressed such joy at his appearance that he realized she had left the dorm to seek him out, and had quickly transported them high up into the woodwork, away from any other late-night wanderers.

"The managers are planning to have a Masquerade Ball on All Hallow's Eve," she whispered, her fingers playing with the edge of his cloak. She could barely make out his silhouette in the darkness, but could guess he'd raised the visible eyebrow. "I am permitted to attend, as is Meg. However," she drew closer to him again, his grip sliding down her shoulders to her upper arms. "I would much rather spend the evening in the company of my teacher."

She felt him stiffen, retreating slightly from her. She said nothing, hoping only that he would grant this request. To her mind, the sooner they were seen by the public as a couple, the better.

"The Opera Ghost does not typically attend such events. Nor would he be welcome."

"I am not inviting the Opera Ghost," she retorted. "I am inviting Erik, my vocal coach, my friend. And," she hesitated here. She'd not actually had time to discuss this with him. He had never actually said the words, despite what she'd told Meg. "My suitor."

Now she heard his breath hitch, his body twitching slightly. She waited for many moments before she heard him exhale slowly. She couldn't see, but heard him step toward her, and jumped only slightly to feel his forehead suddenly rest against her shoulder. His breath fanned over her, and she brought her hands up his arms.

"I don't know what to do with you." He murmured. "What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to react?" He squeezed her arms slightly.

"I'd prefer if you start by saying 'yes.' And as to reactions, I hope… happiness?" She turned her face toward his bowed head.

"Happiness… such a foreign thing, really." He paused again, only sliding his head so that their exposed cheeks met. "You cannot be unaware of my… intentions, Christine. Not after the first night."

She smiled and laughed lightly, turning her lips to his ear, earning another jump. "Indeed, and you cannot doubt mine. And it would seem our intentions are in agreement."

In this position, it suddenly occurred to Christine that she'd never kiss him. Not in this reality. They'd held each other, fallen asleep in each other's arms, and she'd kissed his cheek… But neither had had their first kiss.

Mustering her bravery, preparing herself for a potentially violent reaction, Christine brought her hands to his shoulders, pushing him from her slightly. She caught his masked cheek in her left hand, moving quickly to his nape when she felt him lean away from her touch.

She kept her eyes focused on his, glowing lightly in the dark. Her face approached his, and his eyes seemed to widen in understanding.

"Christ-"

That was all he was able to say before she quickly closed the gap, her face titled back as she molded her lips to his, trying to carefully avoid the mask.

His lips were parted slightly, hers moving gently as she could across them. He seemed frozen, unable to move, when after _Don Juan_ he'd been so shocked he'd nearly thrown her off, and she'd needed to hold on so tightly.

She pulled away slightly only to quickly kiss him again; short, soft, innocent kisses. She fought a triumphant grin when she felt his lips begin to follow hers when she pulled away.

Finally, after having shared countless kisses, she stopped her movement, reaching to hold his head in both hands as she gave him one last lingering kiss. She pleasantly realized his grip on her had tightened, and they held each other fully now.

Foreheads together, she rubbed her nose across what was accessible of his, finding his face flushed.

"Come to the masquerade with me, Erik." She placed a small kiss beneath his eye, which was closed. "Dance the night away with me." Another kiss. "Let me spend the evening in your arms." Her lips moved to his temple.

"Keep doing that and I will never answer," he rasped, arms about her back. "You rob me of everything. My thoughts, my control, my voice."

"Turnabout's fair play, love."

She spoke the endearment without thinking, and Erik gasped harshly, pulling away.

"Christine," he said quietly, desperately. She cursed herself inwardly for such a statement when he couldn't possibly believe she felt that way so soon. "You… you barely know me. You know nothing about my past, my life…"

"Then I must learn," she responded, trying desperately to cover her error. "We might talk of anything, everything, over the course of the evening."

Erik did not look convinced, though his initial resolve was most definitely weakened. He raised his right hand, cupping her cheek lightly.

"I…shall think on your invitation, Christine. For now, you must rest."

She nodded, and when she felt his hand begin to pull away, she grabbed his wrist almost fiercely, and held it still as she place a kiss on his palm. She let go quickly and turned, dashing down the hall and disappearing into her room, the small grin of a love-struck school girl plastered to her face.

Erik, meanwhile, was clutching his wrist where she had, the hand in a tight fist, as though determined to keep her kiss in his hand lest it fly away.


	19. Different Determinations

Christine had actually been quite shocked to discover the managers were planning a Halloween Masquerade. She could not remember such an event being mentioned previously, and there were only three weeks to the night! It had been later in bed that she'd realized they hadn't had a chance for a masquerade last time, because they were too busy fixing a shattered chandelier and chaotic opera house.

But in their typical manner, the managers made the announcement, and expected all employees to follow their rather tumultuous lead.

Dancers were in a frenzy to find an outfit, most raiding the costume rooms in search of fabric, accessories, and shoes. Meg had acted fast, her dainty ballerina feet taking her quickly to the back of the large room, where she easily secured a butterfly gown, embellished with short red and gold wings in the back that flowed down. A dark peach dress decorated with gold, and a butterfly mask to accompany it, Christine gushed over her beauty, relieved with such easy banter with her old friend. Meg kept the gown carefully hidden in her mother's room, as many dresses seemed to disappear in the dorms.

Christine had not been quite so fortunate. She could not find a costume suitable for a masquerade, being either indecent or overused and worn. She had returned to the dorms empty-handed, and resolved to find time to go shopping for a simple dress, perhaps one she could modify in the coming weeks. She taught herself some sewing before, after the servants couldn't be paid…

But first she'd needed to have her conversation with Erik, which had, when she thought about it, been fairly…wonderful.

"Oh, it's it just wonderful, Christine? A masquerade! Dancing the night away with handsome men, Maman distracted by the younger girls, drinking champagne!" Meg flopped onto her bed beside where Christine sat, sighing happily.

Christine laughed quietly, turning to take out Meg's pins for her. Meg sat up obediently, playing with her hands in her lap.

"You are going to go, aren't you Christine? Surely your mystery suitor has asked you?" Meg turned her head slightly, trying to see her face.

"Of course I'm going to go. I needn't have an escort, anyway. But as far as that goes, he is looking into it. He is unsure whether or not he can make it." She tugged out the last few of Meg's pins, turning around as Meg returned the favor.

"How could he not take you? He's supposed to be courting you, isn't he?" Meg tugged a little roughly, earning a wince and quick apology.

"He's a very busy and private person, Meg. I wouldn't begrudge him this tendency. I only hope that he is able to come, and I can enjoy his company all evening." Christine stared in front of her unseeing, wondering if he was listening.

"Not to start another argument with you, Christine, but have you considered the Vicomte?"

Christine sighed and rolled her eyes, frustration bubbling up. _Not again, Meg._

"I only mean that he might ask you. And what if your man is unavailable? Then you will have turned down the Vicomte without needing to-"

"If not him, then I will go alone, Meg. I've no interest in being obligated to spend the night with one person. Then I can dance with whomever I like, and leave whenever I please."

Meg huffed, and finished with Christine's hair. She landed gracelessly on her back once more, crawling under her covers as Christine rose.

"Some people have all the luck. So many potentials they can pick and choose…"

Christine rolled her eyes at Meg's rambling, slipping off her slippers and climbing into bed. She hoped Erik was around, and after lying still for some time, she looked up at the ceiling, blowing it a small kiss before resigning herself to sleep.

IIIIIIII

Erik blew a responding kiss back to her without realizing he'd moved, disturbing him slightly.

_She's turning me into a bloody sentimental wreck._

He ventured down below once more, the trip passing quickly. His thoughts whirled, caught between two key images.

Christine, of course, rosy cheeked and smiling in his arms the night before.

And a small crying boy, who liked to haunt his dreams occasionally.

He couldn't understand the dream. He knew for a fact he'd never seen the child before. There was something disturbingly familiar about him, though.

And his agonized crying and pitiful parting statement continued to eat at his heart.

He threw off his mask as he strode about the lair, unwilling to risk falling asleep and seeing the boy once more.

He strode over to his organ, running his fingers over the keys. He wasn't inspired, not really. Last night he'd played for hours, his music weaving between passionate love and gentle happiness, both of which Christine's kisses had instilled in him. He'd only managed to stop playing when the clock had chimed that it was three in the morning, and he was exhausted.

Erik realized that he had to take her to the masquerade. He'd known it before he'd heard the Little Giry's point about the damn Vicomte. He would have to walk amongst those he tormented, pretending to be a normal man, attending a party with his beautiful rose on his arm…

His eyes zeroed in on a red rose that was currently sitting atop his organ. It had been cut at the perfect moment, plump where the petals began, yet just beginning to bloom and open itself to the world. He stared at it, picking it up to feel the soft petals.

His beautiful rose…

IIIIII

The Vicomte De Chagny was blowing out a candle in his estate as he readied himself for sleep. He'd had a decent day, getting through a few meetings about investments, having a luncheon with his parents, and, though it was hardly of much importance to him, having his tailor create him a suitable costume for the masquerade.

The masquerade. He thought of it with a strange mixture of excitement and dread. He couldn't feel confident about it until he'd spoken to Christine.

Christine. How many years had it been? Far too many, in his opinion.

She'd transformed. Gone was the young girl who would throw herself into the grass or sand without a care. He realized the loss of her father must have had a lasting toll on her psyche, but was filled with joy everyday upon seeing her so happy in the Opera house, laughing and giggling charmingly with her ballet friends.

And the beauty her youth had promised had certainly blossomed! Her beautiful deep eyes were still perfect, her hair flowing with a shine like silk.

Raoul De Chagny was still a gentleman, though, and only allowed his thoughts to linger on her slight, womanly figure for a few moments.

If only he could speak with her! He didn't understand how after more than a few days he still hadn't managed to catch up with her. She was constantly disappearing, like the specters they'd heard stories of as children.

She also seemed so nervous in his presence, and he wondered at it. Why should she be so anxious with him around? Surely an acquaintance as old as he would invoke happy memories, not nerves?

He mentioned such thoughts in passing to his parents, upon informing them of her discovery. Neither had taken much interest, but then again they hadn't before when she was a child. His mother had made a point of saying her nerves no doubt stemmed from being in the company of one so superior to her, and her eyes had been narrowed. He hoped Christine's feelings were not so. He, after all, could never consider himself above her.

He was anxious to speak with her, and resolved himself to find her tomorrow. Even if he could not find her alone, he didn't mind inviting one of her young friends to accompany them to a lunch. Perhaps it would make her more comfortable, he reasoned. Mademoiselle Giry had cooperated in assisting him previously.

_Tomorrow, then_, he'd thought as he rested his head upon a downy pillow. _Tomorrow I shall ask her_.

IIIIII

Meg remained awake for longer than she would have liked. Her excitement about the masquerade was being dimmed over her worry for her friend. And their friendship.

Christine, despite her protests, was _not_ the same. Her debut had made her more reserved, and Meg had more than once considered that Christine would grow haughty in her success. The thought was heartbreaking, as the old Christine was so wonderful, any change would be heartbreaking.

While growing conceit was still a possibility to her, Meg was slightly mollified by Christine's explanation. But how could she not tell her? Why must it be a secret?

Her first thoughts had been that perhaps Christine was making it all up, covering up something more. A nameless suitor, late night sojourns? It had sounded highly suspect.

But Christine's face had taken on a dreamy aspect when she'd spoken of her suitor's love of music and his kind, if somewhat temperamental nature.

So if he was so enchanting and wonderful, why was their romance hidden?

Meg had reached the fairly obvious conclusion: that Christine's lover had no intention of marrying her. He must only desire her for her beauty, and once he'd had his fill he'd leave. Why else would he want his identity to remain anonymous? Men, Meg had come to expect, loved to show off a pretty thing on their arm. When they did not want to be seen together in public with a girl, it meant they actually thought them unworthy. Meg had also come to fear that Christine's suitor was actually betrothed or worse yet, married.

So, Meg Giry was understandably worried for her dear friend. Christine seemed to have not even considered the possibility that her suitor didn't have good intentions, and Meg had not known precisely how to broach the subject. Christine was obviously displeased whenever Meg said something potentially offensive about the man.

She also would quickly drop any conversations pertaining to the Vicomte. The Vicomte! Christine was, Meg reasoned, being utterly bamboozled to be rejecting a Vicomte for some mystery man. A Vicomte, with wealth, power, title, and looks, sought her out, and she would reject him based on what? Some man who was embarrassed to be seen with her?

She loved Christine, she did. They were like sisters, and sisters were supposed to share everything together. Christine must be remaining silent at the bidding of that _man_, and she needed to realize he may be fooling her.

So, despite her promise, Meg had no intention of preventing the Vicomte from seeing Christine, should he ask for her. She wouldn't be foolish enough to lead him to her dressing room door; she could certainly get the two of them together at other locations.

Perhaps she was wrong, but she doubted it. And Christine would probably thank her later on, once she realized what she might have been saved from.

**Thank you to everyone for their extremely flattering reviews of the story! I intend to continue updating more frequently! Cross my heart! I also intend to thank each review personally, but I really wanted to get this up soon.**

**COSTUME CONTEST! Anyone want to submit ideas for Christine's costume? You can do it via review or message. The next update will have her costume, and here are some ideas of my own that you can vote for:**

**Red Rose, Angel, Dove, Swan (not the bed), White Rose**

**So, please give me ideas! But not costumes that were prominent in the movie, please, or a butterfly, as that is Meg's. **


	20. And Now We Go to Supper?

**Hello readers! I'm trying to keep up with writing, but I have midterms now, so this might be the last update for about two weeks.**

**Requiemk626: Thank you so much for such a kind review! It means a lot to me that you take the time to write so much! And fear not! There's a masquerade on the way! And the theme is fluff!**

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**AddictedToBooks97: Thank you! I'm glad you like her!**

**You Are Love: Thank you! And haha, read on…**

**MusicalMaryann: Thank you! I hope you keep reading!**

**SquidPire: Thank you! Wait and see! **

**Darkwysper: Thank you! The drama's only beginning…**

**PrimaDonna24601: Thank you! I hope you enjoy the drama…**

**Angelofmusic: Why, thank you!**

**AlteraPars87: Thank you for your review! And don't worry; Meg and Christine aren't over just yet!**

Christine awoke with a smile on her face, not for the first time since her resurrection. She rolled her grin into her pillow, trying to stifle the seemingly irrational happiness. How could she not awake with a smile when she'd been dreaming of Erik and his sweet kisses?

She sat up slowly, stretching languidly before looking around the dormitory. Meg was rising as well, everyone waking to the marching of feet outside the door.

Practice, again, proceeded as normal. The only marked changed was in the managers behavior toward her. They had started to treat her as they did Carlotta, to her astonishment. As they passed, they gave her slight bows, twitching as if with nerves. She wondered if they assumed all Divas behaved in a similar manner: loud, obnoxious, and positively horrid.

Unfortunately, the other members of the chorus began to treat her differently as well. Some suddenly acted as though she was an enemy, while others seemed nervous of offending her. She maintained the personality she'd always had; she was polite, smiled upon greeting, and tried not to shrink under any less than complimentary gazes.

This had, she remembered, happened the first time. Carlotta was always the worst, but other members of the chorus had gossiped and spread hate as well, though she hoped she could withstand it this time. She would not quake now. The future would be what she made it, this time.

As Monsieur Reyer granted them all a lunch breaking after four hours and a particularly poor cadenza from Carlotta, Christine cast her eyes over the audience, locating Raoul amongst those viewing. She had, over the past week, accustomed herself to disappearing at the break, sometimes convincing Meg to relax with her. Today, however, she wanted to see Erik, and speak once more of the masquerade.

As Raoul quickly rose from his seat and headed toward backstage, Christine darted out the opposite exit, feet quickly carrying her to the abandoned dormitories. She looked to the ceiling, issuing her typical silent invitation.

Closing the door swiftly behind her, she turned to her bed, wanting to simply wait for him to appear, if only for a moment. The girls hardly ever returned to the dorms during the break, and the weather had been unseasonably warm for October. Doubtless they would take advantage and go out to eat.

She stopped short of her bed, however, when she noticed a white envelope and red rose upon it.

She bounded to the mattress, landing on her stomach like a child, eagerly plucking the rose and inhaling its lovely sent. She took up the envelope, which bore her name in an elegant, flourished handwriting. It was sealed, not with a skull, but with a smaller stamp, which showed no obvious symbol. It looked, she thought, as though it had been sealed with simple red candle wax, much like her own letter to him had been sealed with that candle in her dressing room.

Carefully opening it, she gasped and laughed lightly as she was gifted with a few rose petals, tumbling out as the letter was removed.

The letter itself was Erik's, or should she say the Opera Ghost's, typical parchment. However, the words were a large deviation from those signed by O.G.

_My Dearest Christine,_

_ I beseech you with my humblest apology, for failing to have answered you last evening. Your invitation, I must admit, caught me quite off-guard, yet that is no excuse for cowardice. It would be my honor to accompany you to the coming Masquerade, but I make one request of you. Please refrain from acquiring a costume, and allow your suitor to make such a purchase. You have my word that I shall do my utmost to please you._

_ In the meantime, would you be opposed to dining with myself on the coming Saturday? You will, of course, be given your weekend break the following day, so rest assured I shan't tire you for any practices._

_ I understand should you wish to decline._

_ Yours,_

_ E._

Christine smiled broadly; clutching the letter firmly against her chest as her other hand brought the rose to her mouth, kissing it. She looked around, hoping to see him appear. When he did not, she simply blew another kiss to the ceiling, and stated her answer.

"Yes, Erik. I would love nothing more."

She heard a sigh, as if of relief, and then his voice filled the room.

"While nothing would please me more than to sit with you, mon ange, I regrettably have work I must accomplish. Until Saturday, my dear."

"Until Saturday? So long…" she trailed off mournfully, looking around the ceiling, hoping to pinpoint his location.

"Indeed, but it cannot be helped. So, my dear, for the time being, we shall have to part for a few days."

"Adieu, Erik. Until Saturday."

He was gone then, and she realized that she had some time left in her break. Unwilling to risk a run in with Raoul, she contented herself with eating an apple, which had been appearing around her in the Opera House since the week before, no doubt as an ongoing token from Erik.

She left her dressing room with only minutes to spare, walking calmly back toward the stage. Childish as it may be, she simply wasn't prepared to have another conversation with Raoul, or come up with more excuses to turn him down.

She should've known, should've remembered, that Raoul was a tad persistent.

"Christine!" Came his voice as she entered backstage, causing multiple eyes to land on her, sealing her fate.

Christine turned, fighting the urge to run away like a child. This was an event she could not perpetually ignore. She might as well face some of it now.

"Christine, I've been looking for you all week! You disappear like a ghost every day!" Raoul was not being unkind. His eyes shone with his teasing, a lighthearted smile on his face.

"Hello, Raoul. I trust you are well on such a lovely day as this?" She smiled in return, but tried to maintain at least some formality. Christine was well aware of the many eyes watching her, an opera performer, and the Vicomte.

"Quite well, and all the more for finally speaking with you. There is something I'd like to talk to you about." He reached forward, taking her right hand and quickly pulling her further away from prying ears. Christine wished she could tactfully remove her hand, but despite herself, didn't want to be rude. Not when he'd done her no wrong.

"Raoul, we needn't return to the corridors. We can merely speak quietly right here if you fear eavesdropping." Christine pulled him gently to a stop, determined not to leave the eyesight of at least some of the staff. God knows what everyone would think if they disappeared from view completely.

Raoul turned, facing her again, and reached for her other hand. She did not yield, and instead pulled her other hand from his, folding them neatly in front her. She looked at him, noticed a slight hesitation on his part as he chose to bring his hands behind his back.

"Christine, I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to find you again after all these years. I would very much like to have dinner with you sometime, perhaps this weekend? We could catch up on all the years we missed…" He trailed off, looking at her and allowing his eyes to trace over her face.

"I am happy to see you again too, Raoul. It has been nearly a decade." She gave him a small smile, wondering where Erik was right now. Even as she rejected Raoul, he would be angry just for his invitation.

"Indeed! So, dinner, this Saturday? I know a lovely restaurant not too far from the Opera, and you haven't any practice the next day." Raoul's smile bloomed, oblivious of her growing discomfort.

"I-I'm sorry, Raoul, but I'm afraid I won't be able to dine with you Saturday. I," she paused, wondering if she should reveal that she already had a suitor. "I already have plans, you see."

She watched guiltily as his smiled started to die, disappointment etched in his face.

"Oh, I see." He seemed to struggle with his thoughts for a moment, before adding a little desperately, "Nothing you can get out of, I assume?"

"No, Raoul. I am sorry." She gave him a sympathetic smile.

He stood a bit straighter, bringing his smile back to his face.

"Well then, I suppose it cannot be helped. But, listen, Christine, there was something else I hoped to-"

But, thankfully or regrettably, Raoul was cut off by Monsieur Reyer's summons, and Christine gave him an apologetic goodbye.

IIIIII

Unfortunately, Christine could not escape at the end of practice either. And she suspected that Meg was not innocent.

Meg had already managed to get out of half her costume by the time Christine arrived backstage, and went into a frenzy helping her with hers. Thanks to her hasty work, Christine was out of her costume in record time, and almost dragged from the room. Into the coincidental presence of the Vicomte.

Meg, for her part, acted thoroughly surprised to have "stumbled upon him," as she dramatically put it. She smiled at him, before looking meaningfully at Christine.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, I hope you will be attending the masquerade this month. Surely you wouldn't miss our first masquerade since becoming patron?" Meg leaned toward him, smiling gaily.

"Quite, I wouldn't dream of missing it, Mademoiselle. In fact, Christine, I was hoping to continue our conversation from earlier. I didn't get to quite finish what I wanted to discuss with you." Meg's eyes went wide, and she curtsied to excuse herself, smiling at Christine as she walked away.

Christine fought to keep a glare off her face as she watched Meg leave.

_You and I, Meg, will be having __**words!**_

"Christine?" Raoul's voice turned her around, just in time to see his hand reaching for her left arm. She inched away slightly, resuming her earlier pose.

Raoul coughed slightly, before edging nearer.

"Christine, I'm grateful she mentioned the masque, as that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'd hoped to bring it up at dinner, but…" he trailed off, looking at her a tad wistfully. "Christine, I would be most honored if you attend the masque will me." He looked at her beseechingly, and her silence, born of regret, guilt, and dread, was interpreted incorrectly. "We could reminisce about the old times, and learn what we've missed in the interval. And, of course," and here he grinned conspiratorially, "It would be wonderful to formally introduce the Opera's up and coming Diva to the patrons, and my acquaintances."

Christine took a breath, bringing her hands to her front and holding them tightly.

_ I will break your heart, Raoul. But you don't love me enough yet. It won't hurt as badly here…_

"Th-thank you for the invitation, Raoul. But I-" There was dread in his eyes the moment she'd started speaking. "I've actually already accepted another partner for the masquerade. We just made arrangements for it…"

"Who?" Raoul blurted slightly impolitely, although he immediately looked chagrined. She gave a sad smile.

"A dear friend, whom I've known since my arrival at the Opera House. He has been my companion for some time now…" she trailed off, and Raoul looked perplexed, troubled.

"A companion, Little Lotte? Well then, I should like to meet him sometime. What is his na-?"

"Well, of course, you _shall_ meet him, Raoul. At the Masquerade at the end of the month." Christine tried her best to stave off the dangerous question. Meg would take her mystery romance much easier than Raoul would. "He's a fairly private person, I'm sure you've never met him."

Raoul looked unconvinced, and scratch the back of his head, running his fingers through his hair.

"Well, I… I'm sorry to haven't asked you sooner. I'd thought… albeit foolishly, it would seem…" He struggled, seeming to want to say more. Finally, he straightened his posture, looking at her with more calm in his eyes. "No matter, then. If nothing else, we shall see each other at the masquerade. That's sure to be an exciting evening, no?"

She smiled slightly again, giving a farewell curtsy.

"I'm sure it will, Raoul. Adieu."

IIIIII

Meg was taking at her hairpins when Christine got back to the dormitories. She looked at her slowly, with an eager light in her eyes. She watched Christine as she went past her, sitting on her own bed and tending to herself.

'So, what did the Vicomte want, mon ami?" Meg didn't look at her, pretending to act casually.

"He wanted to ask me to the masquerade." Christine said it calmly, knowing that Meg had no doubt already reached that conclusion.

"Oh, how lovely of him." Meg said nothing else, but Christine was too sad to offer her the information she sought. "And what did you reply?"

"That I was sorry, but I've already accepted someone else." Christine said as she finished with her hair, moving to don her nightclothes.

"So, you lied, technically." Meg looked at her covertly, trying to gauge her reaction.

Christine rolled her eyes, not that Meg could see, and replied calmly.

"No, I did not."

"Christine, your mysterious suitor hasn't agreed to take you yet. So, if that's what you told-"

"He has agreed, actually." Christine turned to look at Meg, an amused and somewhat smug grin on her face.

"He-he has?" Meg looked stunned. She could not recall a moment when Christine had been alone or met with anyone. When had they possibly spoken?

"He sent me word this afternoon. And, he wants to buy me a costume himself." Christine climbed into her bed, smiling.

Meg followed her example, wondering again if she were right about Christine's suitor. If he was going to go with her…

And Meg began to feel remorse for her actions, in deliberately trying to change Christine's mind.

IIIIIII

_Of course she'd have found someone to go with_!

Raoul dejectedly marched to his chambers, his heart throbbing a little painfully.

He really should have realized that all the invited performers would have found partners, and good easily pick from amongst each other. Surely Christine date was…

Who was he again?

_Oh, she… she never said…_

Raoul pressed his lips together in confusion and frustration.

But, a de Chagny easily bounces back, and Raoul was too good natured a person to dwell in sorrow.

After all, surely his Little Lotte could spare him a dance or two during the evening.

**Here is a quick look at Meg's costume and mask:**

Meg's mask can be found online, look up { medievalbridalfashions .com princess gown and butterfly mask } She wears the mask from that, (nothing else in the pictures)

For Meg's dress, picture the one Christine wears to the masquerade in the musical. Now make it a little less poufy, and a bit longer. Change it to a darkish peach color with gold instead of silver. On the back, there are small, wing like appendages, that when she dances, will sort of flap.


	21. Sleep Well, My Angel

**Why hello dear readers. Here's a present for spring break!**

**Warning, this chapter is most definitely rated T. I didn't think it quite constituted a Mature though, as I come across much worse rated T.**

It was dark. It was so, so dark. Even his eyes, which had grown accustomed to endless night beneath the opera house, could not comprehend the full details of his surroundings.

Breath fanned around his face, his neck. Hands smoothed down his back, as if to iron out his scars.

Everything was shifting. The dark made everything pixelated, spots of black preventing full sight appreciation.

Every so often he felt a stinging at his shoulder, nails digging in.

His hand found a hip, a waist, and arm. It never stopped moving, never stopped touching. The other alternated between holding fiercely to the back of a head to splaying out against the smooth, arching back.

"Oh…"

The soft voice thrilled him, and he found its lips with his, molding them for a few delirious seconds.

The eyes kept holding his. They sparkled even in the non-light.

Gasps and pants echoed around them, interrupted occasionally by a small cry.

They were one being, he and this creature. They moved together. Equals, soul mates, inseparable. Nothing could tear them apart. Nothing...

The beautiful one made another breathless cry, and every inch of him was on fire.

"Oh, my Angel…"

It wrapped itself around him, holding so tightly they fused together.

And suddenly there was light in the darkness: bright, white, intense light that surrounded them.

They collapsed against each other, finding hands and joining fingers. The light remained, glowing around them and accentuating every feature.

Her eyes shone brightly, slight evidence present that she had cried only recently. They held his, her hand reaching up to cup his left cheek. She tugged, kissing him fully, tears running anew across both faces.

"I love you!" was his breathless whisper when she finally released him. She said nothing, but buried her faced against his neck. Her fingers squeezed his.

He kept kissing the top of her head, burying his nose in her rich curls. He released her hand, both of his arms coming around and holding her tight. She mimicked the motion.

"Don't let me go." She sobbed against his throat, placing a kiss beneath his chin.

_Never! I will never release you now. No one can survive having one's soul ripped from them! How could I be expected to do so now?_

Her hands kept finding more of his skin, holding and molding bodies. Tears were kissed from both faces, and again and again he seemed to find a heavenly rapture, bliss in her arms.

It was when he was feeling lightheaded with joy that the darkness intruded once more, like a knife slicing through a fine curtain.

Her hand, cupping the right side of his neck, trailed upward, splaying over his cheek. His horrible, mangled cheek.

His blood turned to ice, his body tensing. She didn't seem to notice. Her hand continued its journey, fingers sliding through his hair back down his back, tracing lightly over scar tissue.

She gave a muffled sob, pressing his hand harder against his back; a small shield against attacks from a bloody past.

She finally slipped into sleep after many quiet minutes. He found no such peace.

Scarred, ugly, deformed, hideous! All had been things he'd wish her to see past. And she did now! She did! He felt her acceptance in her embrace, in her kisses. It was not a lie, it could not be.

But now… now, what could he offer her? He was no longer in control of the Opera house. Could no longer give her the fame she deserved. He was a wanted man, a murderer, a thief, hunted for crimes both real and imagined. Already proclaimed guilty of every perceived offense. He could not give her a life any longer. It was too late.

He tried not to shake as he extricated his arms from around her. He made himself freeze when she stirred. When they were finally separated, the world felt cold. Colder than it had ever before.

He bent down carefully, retrieving his limited garments and dressing. They did not bring any heat to his body. They felt stiff, itchy.

He looked at her once last time, not believing he could take the steps to leave her. He leaned in close again, pressing a brief kiss to her forehead. Unable to stop there, he went to her cheek, nose, and finally her lips. She stirred again, and he retreated back an inch, watching her carefully. Her mouth twitched slightly, but her eyes remained closed.

"I love you. Be happy. _Please _be happy."

Her found her clothes; put them in a neat pile for her, draping the dress over the single table in the small room. She gave a small shiver from the bed, and she brought the small blanket around her. Thinking it may not be enough, he laid her garments over her.

Feeling a sob rise in his throat he bolted from the room, the little house he'd secluded himself in. He kept running, so hard and fast that the surroundings warped and twisted. Everything fell away in a swirl and black and gray, and he fell, screaming in agony.

When he woke, he was once more drenched in sweat, tears bathing his face. His screams still echoed slightly in his small bedchamber, bouncing mockingly from the stones.

He dropped his head down again against the pillow, taking deep gulps of air.

These kinds of dreams were becoming a usual occurrence. Odd images that seemed real and lifelike, the pain of them felt to his core. He'd seen the small boy often enough. Occasionally, Erik saw a vast, colorful world, filled with lights and laughter, the smell containing a hint of the sea. And even though he had never seen the place before in his life, he knew without a doubt that it was _his_. His kingdom, his dominion. There, he was like a God, even more so than he was at the Opera. People respected him, obeyed his commands without protest. Yes, there and only there had Erik had total control.

Erik growled under his breath. Stupid imagination. Curse hope! Curse dreams! But most of all, curse this most recent torment.

He exhaled a shaky breath. He'd never had such a dream before. Not to say he hadn't dreamt about Christine, but most dissolved into nightmares of her screams.

But this one…

He'd felt everything. It had been so powerful, so real. And the pain of walking away from her, when she'd come to him willingly, had lied naked in his arms, was making his heart rip at the seams.

Christine. She gave him the hope he scorned but could not repulse. She gave him dreams during the day of what could be. He'd didn't have to leave her! He could still make her career, give her a life of splendor. Why shouldn't he? He ran this Opera house, would always have his orders obeyed. She would be a star, the toast of Paris, of Europe! His diva, his angel, his wi-

He cut off that train of thought. It was still too raw, too dangerous to contemplate. But her words, her actions, were so beautiful.

He got up, unable to stay and risk another nightmare. He went to the desk he'd worked on for the past few days. His current project lay across it, almost complete except for a few more minor details. Its fellow lay finished, its simplicity making the job far less strenuous. It had come to him in a spur of the moment during a fit of melancholy, and the idea had run its course.

Erik prayed Christine would like it. It would look stunning on her, he was sure.

He glanced at the clock. It was 5:30. He still had a few more hours before the rats and workers started running about. It was too risky to go back to sleep.

He had an entire day to prepare for this evening. Saturday evening, when she would spend the night. Everything must be perfect.

IIIIIII

"Come in."

Madame Giry glanced up for a moment as the door opened. She had been expecting this conversation. She only wondered why it had taken a few weeks to come up.

"Good morning, Madame." Christine said, giving a small curtsy.

"Good morning, Christine. Was there something you needed?"

Christine was fisting her dress in her hands, wrinkling it, and Madame corrected her. Ever the taskmaster, even when the coming conversation would no doubt have heavy consequences.

Christine clasped her hands in front of her, bringing herself to face the ballet mistress.

"I wish to discuss something rather important with you, Madame."

Madame Giry inclined her head, gesturing to the empty seat in front of her. Christine sat quickly, placing her hands in her lap.

"What is it?"

Christine looked her full in the face, trying to mask her nerves.

"About that night I disappeared, Madame." She paused there, and swallowed. Madame Giry maintained a calm façade, while apprehension grew inside her.

"Yes?"

"I know you know where I went." Christine said it quickly, looking at her intently. Madame Giry nodded slowly. "And, I know… you know who I was with."

"Indeed?" Madame said carefully.

"And I believe you have known the truth for quite some time now. Perhaps, ever since the beginning?"

Madame Giry sighed, leaning back in her chair. She knew the conversation was coming, but that didn't make it easier.

"Christine, child, what is it you truly wish to say? These statements are not moving the conversation forward, merely establishing mutual knowledge."

Christine pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, appearing to brace herself.

"I want you to know that I have agreed to see him. That I have…accepted him."

Madame looked at her closely, placing her elbows on the table and folding her hands.

"And," she spoke softly, "in what capacity have you chosen to accept him in, Christine?"

"Well, he will accompany me to the masque. He has agreed to it." Christine smiled slightly at the mistress' momentary shock.

"Well, as impressive a feat that is, it does not quite answer my question, dear. You have convinced him to take you. Oh," Madame waved a hand in front of you at Christine's blush, "I'm no fool, girl. I know you must have asked him. But we'll ignore that breach of propriety. What I want to know is _what_ the current condition of your relationship is?" Madame raised her eyebrow at Christine's continued blush.

"We-I have… We've accepted each other's suit, Madame." Christine's hands were gripping each other tightly now, and Madame once more corrected her.

"I see. And the ball shall be your debut into society as such?"

Christine nodded a little enthusiastically. She smiled at her, and leaned forward.

"The reason I wanted to talk to you, Madame, is because," she faltered, looking slightly downcast, "I have no one else I can share the truth with. At least, not yet." Madame nodded in agreement.

"Indeed. More than once I have had my daughter upon me, demanding I speak with you so that you might confess all your secrets. She has been very upset, Christine." Madame gave her a reproving look, but only a slight one. She looked ashamed enough.

"I know, Madame. I have tried to tell her what I could. It's just, we both agreed not to tell anyone the truth of our relationship, be it platonic or otherwise. And, and you _know_ Meg, Madame! She would not understand! She is the first to proclaim the phantom is around. She wouldn't believe me; she'd probably think I was mad. She already scolded me for turning down Raoul." Christine took a breath, calming her voice. "I'm just not ready for her to know the truth, Madame."

Madame Giry held up her hand, signaling Christine to stop. She was not cross, not really.

"Christine, dear, I know. I can even understand. Despite my association with him, I too have kept Meg in the dark. They have never met, and I wish I could encourage her that he does not exist. But as I handle his notes, that isn't possible. Generally, I simply refuse to answer her questions." Madame sighed tiredly. "I believe that may have been why she reacted so strongly when you would tell her nothing. She can no longer stand to have something kept from her."

"Madame," Christine began, reaching over to grasp her hand, "we can one day tell her the truth, can we not? We are all attending the masque, and she will have to meet him. She only knows that he is my suitor, not that he was the Angel. Or phantom. Perhaps, after having met him out of context, and having known of his existence for some time, we could all sit together, and tell her the truth?"

Madame held Christine's hand over her own, giving her a small smile.

"I wish that it could be so simple, my dear. Such a strategy, while bearing a deceit, may yet be the best course of action. But events rarely play out as we wish they will. We can only pray, and hope all will be well."

Christine returned the pressure, biting her lip as uncertainty rose in her eyes.

"What is your next question, child?" Madame Giry asked calmly.

"You do not… I cannot be certain it would matter, but you do not disapprove of my decision, do you, Madame?" Christine did not look at her as she spoke.

"Indeed, I cannot be certain at this point, Christine. I have never known him to do you harm, aside from that odious ruse. Which, I may add, we will speak about at some point. But you must understand, child, that while it may seem wondrous and romantic now, that man…" Madame sighed, squeezing her hand. "I have no doubt he is dangerous, lethal when threatened. I would never wish to see you affected by such a tendency. And his secrets, I'm sure, go deep."

Christine nodded slightly, looking up at her again.

"There are two secrets I already known, Madame. I know his name." Madame smiled. It was a simple thing, but she doubted anyone else besides the two of them knew it. "And, I meant what I said before Madame. I have seen him."

Comprehension dawned, and Madame Giry's eyes went wide.

"You mean… he showed you? He took away the mask?"

Christine colored, and looked down ashamed.

"No. He didn't. I-I took it off before he realized I was there. I snuck up behind him-"

"You _what_? Mon Dieu, Christine! Your infernal curiosity will be the death of you one day!" Madame Giry looked at her, terror momentarily gripping her at what Erik might've done to her in response. "What did he do to you?"

Christine was shaking her head, as if to deny Madame Giry's thoughts.

"I-I jumped away from him almost immediately. He screamed, yelled at me for a bit. Chased after me when I tried to dart away. He was wild, but," Christine looked at her then, a sheen of tears coating her eyes, "oh Madame, he was heartbroken! He believed I'd never have anything to do with him again, once I knew the truth. I hate myself for causing him such pain." Christine shook her head. "But Madame, it was necessary! The feelings between us now, he cannot doubt them, thinking I will turn away when I see his face. I've seen it many times now, taken the mask away myself. His face will never stop me."

Madame Giry leaned back in her chair, eyeing Christine.

"I never could have guessed at your…resolve, regarding him. Truly, you are still so very young. Do not take offense, but I wouldn't have guessed you to be so strong, now."

Christine laughed lightly. Tears fell down her cheeks, which Giry reached over to quickly dash away.

"I am _not_ strong. People keep saying I'm so very strong now. It's not true. I just," another shaky breath, "I need him. He is a part of me, and I believe I am a part of him. I could not bear to be separated now."

"May God grant you happiness, Christine, should this truly be your choice, for I must warn you, I feel this world will not be so kind."

**And the plot thickens with Giry getting more involved, and Erik's former reality continuing to haunt him. Stay tuned…**

**Thank you to all my reviewers! I'm sorry I didn't give you personalized thank yous this time!**


	22. Madame's Lecture

**And here is another chapter! I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Brief note: I'm going to start thanking my reviewers by private message, because it's easier to thank you as I get the reviews. Also, some people ask questions in their reviews, so I can answer a specific person's question in the message without addressing all my readers.**

Christine floated through the performance that night. Carlotta could not possibly bring her down, and she existed in a bubble of tranquility till the curtain fell.

Her bows complete, her arms full of flowers, and her mouth a little sore from smiling at patrons for a solid half hour, Christine darted into the changing room. Most of the girls had already fled for the evening, whether to their homes or the beds of others. Saturday's were a wonderful thing.

Meg, of course, was still present, always waiting to help Christine out of her costume.

An awkward silence enveloped them both. Meg's fingers seemed to stumble more than usual at Christine's laces.

"It's Saturday, Christine." Meg began hesitantly.

"It is," was her quiet response.

"We haven't any performances tomorrow, or practice." Meg yanked away the last of the strings. "You should come spend the night with Maman and I. We could talk, the three of us."

"I'm sorry, Meg." Christine turned slowly, removing the rest of the bulky costume. "You see, I've already made arrangements for this evening." She did not go further, but Meg hardly needed prompting.

"What are you doing tonight, Christine?" Meg asked as she handed her a towel to help with the stage makeup.

"I'm going to have dinner with my suitor. He's invited me to dine with him tonight, as I have no work tomorrow, like you said."

"Oh…I see." She paused, and Christine braced herself for another invitation. "Well then, I can wait up for you! When you return, come by Maman's room, and we can-"

"I'm afraid I can't, Meg." Christine threw on her dress quickly, shedding the mute's trousers quickly. "I won't be returning this evening."

"You won't-what in God's name do you mean?" Meg looked at her, shock controlling her face. Christine said nothing for a moment, which was too long. "You can't possibly mean to spend the _night_ with him!" Meg shook her head, panic setting in. _I WAS right about him! It is as I feared!_

"We both realized it will be quite late to return me to the Opera following supper, Meg. It's just easier if I-"

"Christine, are you insane? You haven't even been seeing him that long and you mean to let him…" Meg trailed off, disgust evident on her face. Christine had expected such a reaction, braced herself for it. But it still hurt.

"No, Meg! I don't intend to let him do anything! Maybe you should stop jumping to conclusions about someone you've never even met!" Christine walked away from her, wanting to go to the dormitory to fetch her purse, maintaining the illusion that she was leaving the building.

"Jumping to conclusions! You're going to spend the night in a strange man's house! What do you think people are going to think?"

"They aren't going to think anything, because no one else is going to know!"

Meg scoffed disbelievingly. How could Christine be so naïve? The moment she left the building the rumors would fly.

"And how are you going to stop them knowing, Christine? Do you think people won't notice when you don't come back for the night?" Christine huffed slightly.

"Who in the dormitory is going to notice I'm not there, Meg? All the older girls have already snuck off for the night. The younger ones won't realize what that means, and won't notice anything special about my leaving!"

"You can't do this. You can't! Can't you see what he's going to do once he's had his fill, Christine?" Meg grabbed Christine's right arm, yanking her around to face her. "He's going to say 'thanks for the fun' and leave you! Respectable gentleman don't let ladies spend the night with them before marr-"

"For the love of God, Meg! I'm not going to lay with him!" Christine yanked her arm away. "He has a guest bedroom, Meg, which has already been made up for me. We will have dinner, talk a bit, most likely make plans for the masque, and then I will go to bed! Alone!"

"What is all this vulgar yelling?"

The young ladies turned to see the domineering figure of Madame Giry standing behind them in the hallway, cane clutched firmly in her hand. Her gaze was reprimanding, and she focused it on both of them.

Meg was the first to recover, and grabbed Christine's arm once again, dragging her to her mother despite her protests. She placed them both in front of her, her eyes fiery.

"Maman, you cannot allow this. Christine is trying to run off and-and spend the night with-"

"Quiet, Meg." Madame Giry's stern response, though soft, seemed almost deafening. Meg looked stunned, ready to cry.

"Madame, I told Meg my plans for the evening. She's just upset with me."

Madame Giry nodded, turning back to Meg.

"Meg, you will return to the room and ready yourself for the evening. I have supper waiting for you."

In one of the rare moments since reaching adolescence, Meg disobeyed her mother to her face.

"No! No, I will not crawl away and hide in your room! You don't understand! You're always telling us to be on guard, to protect ourselves, but Christine is trying to-"

"_Meg_." Silence fell again. "Christine has already informed me of her plans for this evening. We have discussed it at length."

"You-" Meg broke off, her eyes impossibly wider, "you _knew_ of this? Then why-how can you let her go?"

"We will discuss this _later_, Meg Giry. At present, we are making Christine late. Off you go, girl."

Christine inclined her head and curtsied slightly, quickly walking off down the hall to retrieve her purse.

Meg followed her mother back to the room, anger boiling inside her. What was going on? Honor thy mother be damned! She would know the truth!

IIIIIII

"_Madame, I have plans for this weekend." Christine bit her lip hesitantly._

_Madame Giry raised an eyebrow, watching her carefully. Her young charge was nervous again._

"_And what might these plans be?"_

"_I am going to his home again on Saturday night. H offered to make dinner for us."_

_Madame Giry let out a sigh, quickly understanding where this was going._

"_And when do you plan to return from your sojourn to the cellars?"_

_Christine closed her eyes, her face guilty._

"_Sunday morning, in time for mass. I'd still go to church with you and Meg."_

"_Christine Daae, if you think, for one moment, that you're going to spend the night with him, unsupervised, I will have you scrubbing the dormitories for a week!"_

_Christine winced under the swift reprimand._

"_Madame, he has a room already prepared for me. I have remained there for the night before. My room is completely separate from his. We don't…share sleeping space."_

"_Chris-__**tine**__. I know you realize what a gargantuan breech of propriety this is. How can you even ask me? What do you think people will say when you disappear again?"_

"_I…I was hoping you might help me, Madame." Christine looked her in the face again. "I hoped you would say I was with Meg and you. I'll be seen with you at church anyway." At the sight of Madame Giry's further outraged face, Christine began to beg. "Please, Madame! He wants me to dine with him! As any normal courtship. Neither of us wants to bother returning me to the surface so late! At any rate, surely that would cause more of a stir, were I to be caught sneaking back into the dorms so late."_

_Madame Giry shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers._

"_And he will no doubt become very irate should I deny you this."_

"_That's not-"_

"_Enough, Christine."_

_Madame Giry looked at her hard, making Christine gulp slightly._

"_I can clearly see you have no intention of breaking this appointment, should I refuse you or not." She sighed. "I have already lied for him copious times. And you are my ward. I will always protect you. But do not be so foolish as to believe this will become a regular occurrence."_

_Christine nodded, eternally grateful for Madame Giry's acceptance._

"_Thank you, Madame. So much. I will never disappoint you."_

IIIIII

"I cannot believe you! After everything you've always taught us, you're letting her stay in his house!"

"Sit down, Meg. Your tantrum is not impressing anyone."

Meg nearly threw her supper plate at the wall.

"Maybe I'll go stay with the next man who gives me a flower after a performance, Mother! That should be fine-"

"_Meg_!"

Meg sat down on the bed, bitter tears leaking out despite her efforts. She clenched her fists, wrinkling her nightgown.

"I think we are both perfectly aware of what is going on here."

Meg looked up; her mother's gaze was calm. It annoyed her.

"Yes! We are perfectly aware that Christine is being used by some rich bloke who's going to throw her away for the next little thing that walks his way!"

"And you know this how, Meg?"

Meg scoffed, standing up to pace in the small space.

"Let's see. He wants to be her anonymous suitor, so no one can ever say they saw them together. He won't let her tell people his name. And he wants to bring her to his home for the evening! If he wanted to be a sincere suitor, why wouldn't he show himself?"

"Because he cares about her reputation, Meg." Madame Giry's voice was so firm that Meg turned to stare.

"Cares about her- _cares about her reputation_? How does remaining anonymous mean he cares? That's the stupidest excuse-"

"Be _quiet_, Meg." Madame Giry was growing weary. Meg had been babbling and ranting since they'd entered the room. Enough was enough. "Despite what you think, Meg, the decision to keep this relationship a secret was mutually agreed upon. Christine does not wish it to be in the public eye at this time."

Meg glared at her mother.

"She-she didn't ever say that! I mean, yes, I-I think she said she was okay with it, but she doesn't-"

"She does, Meg. Christine is still very new to being a star. She confessed that she does not want people to know she is in a relationship yet, or they may immediately assume the worst. Much like _you_, who claim to be her best friend, have done."

Meg squirmed slightly, disliking the feeling of guilt that was creeping.

"Understandably, it would do her no good to have rumors fly that she is involved with a man. She needs to build a reputation first on her talent. Then, I believe they will allow themselves to be seen together."

"And until then it's perfectly all right for her to spend the night with him?"

"She is staying in a guest bedroom, Meg. Yes, I'm no fool. I'm aware of what it looks like. But Christine is an adult, and makes her own decisions. And has also made a promise to me that nothing shall happen. She went so far as to offer to swear on the Bible. And the gentleman will do nothing to hurt her."

Again, Meg rolled her eyes, unconvinced.

"Just because you've never met him doesn't mean he is a lesser person. While I can't say he has always made the most honorable of choices in his life, he would never allow anything to harm Christine."

"Wha-how do _you_ know this, Maman?"

"Because I have spoken with both of them."

Meg promptly collapsed into a chair. She stared at her mother. Her mother, who had listened to Christine carefully and had tried to understand. Unlike herself, who had immediately imagined the worst, and hurt her best friend with her judgment. Guilty tears pricked at her eyes.

"She's so angry with me."

"Perhaps you should consider that next time you see her."

Meg swallowed painfully and nodded.

IIIII

Christine dashed back out of the dormitories, having earned a few praises from the chorus members. She bid them farewell, giving smiles and waves as she left.

She walked quickly down the now dim passages, her ears alert for anyone wandering. Christine remembered the stories she'd heard about what happened to the girls foolish enough to wander the Opera at night.

He came for her quickly. At first, all she heard was a soft swish of fabric. Then she heard the beautiful whisper of her name, drifting lazily down the corridor. She paused, smiling slightly and looked around. In the dark, she saw no sign of him.

She heard a small squeaked to her left, and started slightly to see his mask in the dark. It was the only visible part of him, and the effect was eerie.

"H-hello." Christine whispered breathlessly. The mask shifted in the dark, and a gloved hand appeared before her. She accepted it quickly, and was pulled into the darkness with him. His arm went around her waist smoothly, drawing her into his embrace. She smiled, and hoped her felt the movement against his chest. A hand went through her curls slowly, gently. They pulled away from each other and he took her arm, leading her down to the lair once more.

**Hey everyone. Just to clear a few things up with this chapter. I didn't write the entire conversation had by Christine and Giry. Suffice to say, it was very extensive and addressed the concerns of both ladies. So anything Madame Giry is telling Meg during her tantrum is what Christine told her. Also, no, Giry did not actually have a sit down with Erik about Christine; she just wants Meg to think she did. But what I meant by that was she HAS talked to him in the past, and obviously knows he doesn't want to be seen walking around the theater.**

**Sorry the last few chapters have been a little uneventful/nonEC. I wanted to give love to some other characters too.**


	23. Blissful Evening

**Hello everyone! I hope you are all enjoying the story!**

**Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers!**

**And now, the dinner date…**

Christine kept a firm hold of his hand as they journeyed through the dank cellars. Her right hand kept a careful grasp on her gown, barring a stumble on the less than even footing. He would pause occasionally to guide her carefully, and she knew they were going over a trap. It was hard to keep down a shudder, when she considered how easily she would meet her death in this corridor were it not for his help.

When they reached the lake, he surprised her by sweeping her into his arms, carefully placing her in the long gondola. She reclined against the front, watching him row again. He tried to keep his gaze on the water or their direction, but occasionally she caught him staring at her, only to looking away when he met her gaze. She wanted to kiss the small smile that kept forming on the side of his mouth she could see.

Docking the boat with a bump, Erik swiftly set down the pole and took her hands, bringing her to her feet. He did not carry her this time, but held her hand to carefully lead her out of the boat.

_Ever the gentleman_, she thought with a smile.

Christine let out a gasp of delight to behold the table her had prepared. Beautiful, shining goblets, creamy porcelain plates, gleaming silverware and two tall silver candle stick sat atop a gorgeous burgundy table cloth adorned with silver and gold. Atop both plates sat matching burgundy napkins, but on one lay a single red rose, it's leafs and thorns removed.

He pulled out her chair, offering her a seat with a sweep of his arm. She giggled, curtsying slightly and before sitting.

She picked up the rose, inhaling the lovely scent before placing it next to her plate.

Erik darted away with her plate and his, and she wanted to follow him, to see what he had prepared. Her chair had made the slightest squeak when he turned around, pointing his finger at her and commanding in full O.G. persona,

"No. You stay! I will return in a moment." He looked at her a moment longer before heading into his kitchen area.

She sighed, looking about the lair as she waited. She did a double take on his tables. Did it look… organized? She didn't want to leave her seat in case he returned, but even from her vantage point, yes, the papers and texts that usually covered the tables in mad disarray had been stacked into piles. Further looking around, she saw a dirty cloth which had dark black streaks running through it, as if it had been used to wipe away ink…

The piano had always looked dark and bleak when she'd seen it previously, but now it seemed shinier, and though she could not see the keys from her vantage point, she wagered they were polished. The trails of candle wax had been scraped away.

Christine exhaled slowly as she looked carefully around. Erik seemed to have cleaned everything. The surfaces were shiny; the usual layer of dust was gone. His work had been organized, and everything seemed fresher. And good Lord, there were scented candles placed strategically around the large room and a few could not far from the table. They were mixed among the many candles he had burning at the moment, she was sure.

Erik had clearly put a great deal of effort into merely cleaning up his home for her arrival. She started to worry what he might have made for her supper. Christine hoped he had not gone out of his way.

He quickly dashed that hope by returning into the room, carrying two plates now bearing bowls brimming with vegetables and meat. The smell itself was enough to make a person starving. He placed it in front of her, smiling a little.

"It is a rich meal, but the broth will soothe your throat after a week of singing."

She looked up at him, laughing inwardly at the approval his eyes sought.

"It smells heavenly."

He beamed, and again she was tempted to kiss him. She decided to act on it this time.

She smiled and reached up, removing his mask gently. He froze in place again, his eyes going a bit wide. She took his chin between her left thumb and forefinger and gave him a light peck on the lips. Pulling away she met his eyes again.

"You needn't have gone to so much trouble, you know."

Such a statement seemed to wake him from his shock, and he shook his head at her, scoffing.

"There was no trouble. I only hope it is edible."

He walked away from her then, without his mask, and taking advantage of his forgetting it, placed it under her seat quickly. He set his own plate down, and then walked away from the table again. From behind the piano he produced a bottle of red wine, and a small loaf of bread.

Pouring her a glass, he finally sat down, for which she was grateful. What she was unhappy with was the fact that the table was too large for her to take his hand while they talked.

He raised his glass toward her, and she lifted hers.

"To you, your success, and exquisite voice, without which this Opera would be pointless."

She smiled softly, but before touching his glass, made her own toast.

"To my teacher, without whose tutelage I would have no voice."

He smiled at her, and both drank. Neither voiced it, neither knew the other thought it as well, but both made their own silent toast as the delicious drink was consumed.

_To us_.

IIIII

Some minutes later, after having shared the bread and discussed the Opera, Christine couldn't hold back her delight any longer.

"Erik, this meal is amazing. What's it called?"

"It is _pot au feu_, a dish from Normandy."

"I have never had it before. It's delicious, Erik. You are quite the chef!"

Erik blushed slightly, looking down and focusing on his plate.

"It is not the most common Parisian dish, I suppose. And I highly doubt the workers here would bother to make it when they can do simple fish or chicken more quickly."

"Oh dear."

He looked up, puzzled by her face. It looked exasperated.

"What is it?"

"How long did it take you to prepare this? There is so much involved, all the vegetables and different meat…"

He laughed. She was so wonderful, that she would care how much effort it took to make her dinner.

"It is not as arduous as you believe. Once the initial preparation is done, I merely let it cook during the day at a low temperature. I could check on it as I did my other work." He didn't mention that he'd spent a large part of the day cleaning. And making alterations. Or that he'd rushed down during the intermission to check on it.

"How did you know how to make it?" She asked as she raised another forkful to her lips.

"I… have an old recipe for it." He thought of the yellowed paper that currently sat on a counter in his kitchen.

Christine hesitated for a moment before pressing onward. She needed to know him this time, truly know about him.

"You said it is from Normandy." She paused, watching him. He nodded slowly, still focusing on his own plate. "Is that where you are from? Somewhere in northern France?"

His right hand clenched on his fork, the other reaching quickly for his wine and taking a drink. Still not ready to answer, he took a bite of his bread. Upon looking at her, he saw she was waiting for an answer.

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose that explains your name." she said brightly, trying to lighten the quickly darkening mood. She had to keep them talking, keeping learning about him. She knew so little, knew only what Raoul had once told her after a conversation with Madame Giry. He had kept saying his past was proof he was a mad man, but there had been a brief glimpse of his history involved. He'd been in a traveling fair, was said to have accomplished great feats across the world, and was a man of many talents. "Erik is undoubtedly from the northern countries.

"My name…yes." Erik put another scoop of food in his mouth.

"Maybe we share heritage, if you go back far enough. Perhaps you're Swedish like me!" He looked at her, helpless to resist her voice, her smile. She laughed lightly. "The only two in Paris, I'll bet!"

He chuckled, still nervous at this topic of conversation.

"Where in France are you from?" She asked calmly, ready for any resistance.

Erik took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. After all, Christine did not mean any harm by asking him about his past. She didn't know any of the crimes he'd committed, the hell he'd endured. Although he could hardly believe it, she just seemed curious about who he was.

"I was born in a small town, not very far from Rouen," he answered quietly, the awful memories starting to swirl in his mind.

"When did you leave there?" She asked, placing down her fork and taking a drink of the wine. Her plate was empty. He could use that as an escape, once he finished his.

"When I was very young," was all he said. It was all he could bring himself to say.

"Did you go anywhere else before settling on Paris?" Christine fought to maintain an air of ignorance.

Erik swallowed painfully, panic setting in. She demanded honesty of him, and deserved no less. But how could he tell her about _Persia_? About the Hall of Mirrors? The glass in that room echoed with the sound of a thousand screams, the reflections would show tapestries of blood and agony! He couldn't think about it, much less tell her!

"Y-yes, I've wandered quite a bit. I wanted to see what this world has to offer. My town of origin was not… fulfilling enough for me." He swallowed another large bite, thinking of what he could say. "I came to reside here after a time, and my current position just…happened."

"I daresay you enjoy the power you wield." Erik looked up at her, finding her grinning slightly. "You certainly seem to enjoy some of your antics."

He mulled over her words.

"Some are entertaining. You cannot tell me that my pranks on Carlotta have not been amusing." He raised the good eyebrow, taunting her as he took a sip of his wine.

"Oh, not at all. Particularly when they happen as she shrieks to wake the dead.

Erik choked on the red liquid as he laughed, reaching for a napkin to wipe it from his mouth. Christine was fierier than he'd realized!

"You _are_ wicked, aren't you, my dear? I'd have never thought you had it in you!"

Her smile faltered for a moment, and she too took a drink. She was so different now. Ten years of strife and longing had made her different. But everyone noticed the change far too often.

"I'm not wicked, sir. Perhaps… I just have opinions that I've kept to myself."

Erik chuckled still, pouring them each another glass.

"Indeed? I believe I would like to hear all these fascinating opinions. We might share many."

"We already know we share taste in music. Are you forgetting all our discussions over the years? We already know we have much in common."

He smiled, touched by her recollection.

IIIII

Dinner finished, Erik was immediately on his feet, clearing plates and empty glasses. Christine rose again to assist him, and was once more ordered to sit. She remained more defiant, this time, and got up to sit at the piano, hoping to invite him to play for her. It had been too long since they'd made music together.

When Erik returned, he carried something behind his back. Christine raised an eyebrow at him, turning her head in question as she crossed her ankles on the piano bench.

"A treat for you, my dear. I _do_, in fact, recall all our conversations. And I remember quiet clearly that you expressed a deep love of," he brought his prize around to his front, presenting it like a maître de, "chocolates."

He lifted the shiny tine lid, revealing an assortment of creams and nut-filled chocolates sitting upon paper filling. Christine's eyes went wide with delight, and she smiled up at him, not bothering to contain her joy.

Erik plucked one from the bunch, intending to hand it to her, and was shocked when she opened her mouth.

"T-this, I do believe, is a praline cream. I seem to recall you mentioning once that they are your favorite." He hesitated once more before placing it in her mouth.

She was struck for a moment as she remembered something more. In the hotel, at Phantasma, there had been a few complementary items placed throughout the suite. A rose scented perfume bottle in the bathroom, roses on a dressing table, and next to them, a box of praline creams. She had never gotten the chance to eat them, despite a small happiness at finding them in the room.

Christine savored the flavor, grinning as she enjoyed her candy. Upon finishing, she plucked one and brought it to his lips. Erik started again, before acquiescing and allowing her to place it in his mouth.

"And what flavor was that, _mon ange_?" she teased lightly. He took a moment to chew and swallow, holding up a finger as he struggled. She laughed softly when he was finally able to.

"Caramel, which is apparently difficult to eat quickly."

"Which flavor would you be a fan of, then?" Christine asked, picking another chocolate and offering it to him. He took her hand and guided it back to her own mouth, forcing her to take it. She pouted at first, only to smile and realize he'd made sure she got another praline.

"I'm not truly so found of sweets. These are yours." He sat next to her on the piano bench, fingers ghosting over the keys.

"Would you like to play something?" she asked, covering the chocolates again and tapping a key.

"Would you like to hear me play?" he turned to her, eyebrow raised.

"I would, very much." She leaned against his right shoulder, feeling him stiffen for a moment before steadily relaxing.

"A deal, then. I shall play if you accompany me with your voice." He placed sheet music on the piano stand in front of her. She smiled, nodding in agreement, and sat up straighter as he began to play.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly_…"

**And I think that's where I'll cap it.**

**While I have never **_**had**_** pot au feu, I recommend it based on the recipe I looked up. Granted, it really does take forever to cook. The ingredients themselves aren't hard to come by though, and there wasn't any super complicated preparation. Just… time consuming. For a good manual on it, go to cuisine – france dot com.**

**To Milk: While I agree that "sleeping with" isn't old slang, I don't intend to write "engage in the joys of the flesh" every time I want to talk about sex. I don't know precisely what the 19****th**** century slang would be. But if you do, why don't you tell me? Then I could use it. Also, "gargantuan" came into existence from a 16****th**** century story about two giants, **_**La vie de Gargantua et de Pantagruel**_**, or **_**The Life of Gargantua and Pantagruel**_**, which, coincidentally, is by a French writer, Francois Rabelais. Rabelais made up his own vocabulary in the text, which was later adopted into the French language. So no, I don't think using gargantuan (**_**gargantuesque**_**, which is the French word) in the 19****th**** century would be too big a stretch.**


	24. Apologies

First of all: I want to supremely apologize to everyone. I know it's been a while since I updated, and I'm sorry to those who expected me to be faster. I most likely won't update again until July because I need to focus on my law class. Once that finishes, I should start putting out more chapters. I hope you enjoy this one.

Also, some chapters have been given titles. The titles are actually song titles. I heard these songs after writing the chapters, and thought they fit so well that I wanted to point them out. So, if you are interested in some awesome music, look up the titles on YouTube. I do not claim ownership of any of the music.

The morning came far too early, as usual. But Christine had no sunlight to greet her. She had only the distant noises of someone rummaging about, and the annoying sound of the clock tolling. Once, twice, seven times. Seven in the morning.

She rose carefully from the bed, flinching as her toes met the cold ground. The warmth of the sheets still beckoned, but she needed to move quickly now. Mass first thing. And then she'd dash back to the Opera, find an empty practice room, and then…

She sighed happily, shaking her head to dispel the wisps of sleep.

IIIIIII

Church bells rang in the air, summoning the devout to the pews. Madame Giry already sat in the cathedral with her young pupils, all dress in what little refinery they had. That is, except for a certain soprano.

Christine had felt the glares and envy once they'd all set off together. She had tried to turn him down, but Erik had seemed so excited at the thought of giving her the dress. She couldn't protest when he'd smiled so earnestly, and when he'd faltered, assuming she did not like it, she fell.

It was a little strange now, having him be so sweet to her. He'd been kind as her angel, but she'd seen mostly different forms of passion once he was a man. But now, he was so caring, and treated her as though she was at the same time powerful and fragile.

And still, she worried. Worried for that part of him, that violent, terrified (and terrifying,) part that could emerge at so slight a provocation. It could not have simply vanished in the sudden change of circumstances. He'd told her of the run-in with Buquet, and he'd stopped himself from taking his life. Part the damage he'd inflicted up to that point couldn't be ignored. Erik was still very damaged and volatile.

But she had faith, she had hope that he would calm with time. He'd seemed to have done so, at Coney Island. He was still dangerous, but it was like it was controlled, as if he had it on a leash. Perhaps all that was needed was a place in society, something worth keeping it in check for…

And she would give him that. She would make life something worth fighting for.

The parishioners stood, the mass was ending. Her head jolted up quickly, earning her a few side glances.

The outside air was crisp in the October morning. The sky was blue, but clouds hung overhead, and in the distance, it looked like rain.

"Come, girls. Don't dawdle."

Madame Giry led them back to the grandiose building, their group filled with low murmurs and chatter.

"It's so pretty! Where did she get it?"

"Where do you _think_ she got it, Jammes?"

"But, we heard they weren't seeing each other-"

"Jammes, you're still young. You don't understand how reputations work yet."

"Giselle, that's a little harsh. This is Christine we're talking about. Not-"

"Amèlie, she went from being no one, dancing in the back for years, to star of the opera, dressed in finery, and holding private tête à tête with a Vicomte, our _patron_. Accept the truth when it parade's in front of you in silken ribbons."

She did not turn around. It was not worth it. The others would think what made sense. They had done so in the previous world. They would do so now. Even should she be seen publicly rejecting Raoul, they would still assume she had lain with him at least once.

"I think, Giselle, that you are simply jealous. When was the last time you moved up in the line?"

Now Christine looked down, hiding a small smile as Meg spoke up.

"Oh, because your advances have been so well earned, haven't they, Meg? What was the last achievement? Oh yes, it was the ever beautiful daughter-of-the-teacher leap. Brava!"

"_Giselle_!" Amèlie hissed. Christine heard quick footsteps and saw Giselle being hurried away, Amèlie's hand around her arm.

A moment later, Christine felt an arm link with hers, and glanced at Meg's smirk.

"I've heard it said that those who point fingers are truly pointing out the problems they have with themselves. Do you suppose that means Giselle will sleep with anyone who might advance her position?"

Christine's eyes went wide as she looked after the retreating pair, her cheeks coloring slightly.

"I suppose that would also imply the same for me, given my recent accusation."

Christine looked at her again, wary of the conversation. But Meg's eyes seemed shinier than before.

"I am so sorry, Christine. Maman talked to me, but I should have trusted you. And I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions about your escort."

Christine smiled forgivingly, and reached up her left hand to pat Meg's where it lay on her arm.

"You are forgiven, Meg. And any lingering suspicions will be laid to rest at the masque. It will be wonderful to introduce him to you!"

Meg leaned in conspiratorially.

"Yes, I cannot wait to meet the infamous suitor which has stolen your mind and heart."

They walked on together, the rest of the company passing or departing from the group.

"Have you found anyone to accompany you, Meg?" Christine asked, tilting her head to glance at her.

Meg sighed, looking wistfully at the sky.

"I have not been so lucky. And even if I should find someone to escort me, Maman would scare them off during the night. But perhaps I should take a chance with the handsome Vicomte, since you are uninterested." Meg winked up at her, and Christine forced a smile. She had a feeling that would be a bad idea. But Christine could hardly voice why.

IIIIIII

And so the days of October flew by. The sun hid behind clouds more frequently, and the wind picked up a chill. No snow had graced the buildings yet, but its imminent arrival was anticipated.

The opera house had been gloriously decorated in satin streamers, colored balls hung suspended from various places, seeming to hover in the air. And across the grand staircase hung a banner of red, black, and gold, its letters bold and bright.

_Welcome to the Masquerade_.


	25. The Raven and the Swan

**Hello! I'm alive! My laptop broke and I had a lot of problems retrieving the files, so I had to actually rewrite some stuff. I'd hope to make one huge chapter but since it's been so long since I updated here is a brief pre-masque snippet of E/C fluff. Enjoy!**

"Just a moment longer, _ange_." His hands stayed firmly on hers. She took small, tentative steps, wary of any clutter that liked to cover the cold floor.

She twitched her nose when the silken binding tickled her. The black ribbon was tied in a relatively loose knot that successfully obscured her vision. She could make out shifts in the light, and what she assumed to be Erik's body walking in front of her. But everything else was hidden.

"Here."

Christine felt his hands reach behind her, undoing the knot.

Her eyes adjusted to the light after a moment, coming to focus on the tall object in front of her.

"Oh…"

Erik stood next to it, gazing at her with a mix of hope and anxiety.

"I hope you find it satisfactory. It should fit your exact measurements."

The gown seemed to shimmer in the dim light. The silk flowed elegantly to the floor, a wave of off-white or cream. Delicate feathers clung to the material, gold and silver accents mixed in. It was accompanied by a feathered choker.

Her hand came to rest on her heart, and disbelieving smile touched her lips and she pulled her eyes away to look at him.

He remained apprehensive, hands behind his back, and he was clearly studying her.

She let out an incredulous laugh and launched herself at him, throwing her arms about his neck.

"Erik, oh Erik! It's beautiful! Where on Earth did you find it?"

She delayed his response with a sound kiss, breaking away when she started to flush from oxygen deprivation.

Erik's jaw flexed slightly for a moment, and he swallowed shallowly.

"I-I made the design and brought it to a tailor. I wanted you to have something new, something no one else had seen before." He set her down, and she felt that he actually had something in his hands pressed against her back. Pulling away, he hesitantly handed it to her.

"This is something I made myself. I wouldn't risk some artisan doing it incorrectly."

White, silver and gold, like the dress, the mask was flawless. On the right side, there was gold pulled into the form of…

"A swan?" Christine asked, tracing the pattern delicately. She looked back at the dress, clearly seeing what her costume was to be.

"Indeed." Erik said softly. "While they typically represent the dancers, they are treated as the most beautiful creatures of the woods."

She met his eyes then, and they burned with such intensity that she had to gulp…

Erik placed his finger under her chin, tilting her back for his inspection. She closed her eyes as he leaned in and grazed the apple of her cheek with his lips.

"Creatures of elegance and grace." He made a slow descent toward her ear. "Do you not agree?"

She felt a powerful blush creep up her face, and ducked her head, resting her forehead against his chin.

"And your guise, Erik?" She saw his throat clench, and leaned back to see his eyes once more.

They were harder than before, though she saw that the change in his mood had little to do with her.

Wordlessly, he waved his hand to the left of her gown. On a table behind it, she saw a black mask. She walked over, picking it up.

It was wide, stretching beyond a human face. Its inky black color was chilling, and what appeared to resemble wing tips protruded from the face. She saw that it would almost completely cover the wearer's face, except for their mouth and eyes.

"It is also a bird, correct?" She did not turn to look at him as she spoke, instead picking up the mask to further examine it.

"The raven," he replied softly, though the hard edge did remain.

She turned to him then, the question in her eyes instead of her voice.

Erik sighed, striding forward to remove the mask from her hands. He turns it over, looking at the sightless eyeholes.

"One of Aesop's fables was 'The Raven and the Swan.' It's one of the lesser known tales." He paused, weighing the mask in his hand. She did not speak or prod him, giving him the choice to continue. He looked at her, finally. "The raven saw the swan floating upon the river, and coveted its beautiful white feathers. Assuming that it achieved such beauty from the lake, it abandoned its home and food source to bath in the water. It starved itself, so that it might be beautiful." He paused again, his eyes looking beyond her. Christine fought the urge to swallow nervously. "The moral? No matter what you do, you cannot change nature."

Christine stood still for a few moments, looking at his eyes.

How could she respond to that? What could she possibly say to defuse this situation? She knew this mood. It needed to be dealt with, but not now.

At present, the only thing she could think of was to change the subject.

"And how late do you wish to stay tomorrow night, dear?" She took the black mask from his hands, placing it delicately back on the table. She walked past him, taking his hand to lead him back to the main cavern. "I would not want to force you to remain out longer than you please."

She heard no response at first, and his hand was limp in her own. But she did not release him, instead pulling him to sit by the fire. He looked at her warily, like she was tricking him somehow. She promptly placed herself on the arm of his chair. She took away his mask without asking, placing it gently on the end table.

"Understandably, I could not remain after midnight, my dear." He looked at her impassively, but there was a challenge in his eyes. "The party might take a nasty turn should the guests become terrified of a real demon amongst them-"

Christine acted on her go-to strategy for when he called himself such derogatory titles. She placed a fast kiss on his mouth, lasting only a few seconds, before pulling back and moving the conversation onwards as if the interruption had never happened.

"So midnight, then. We'll leave shortly before the masks are removed. Now the next question is where shall we meet to attend? It might look peculiar if you come collect me from the dormitories, and that is where I'll have to dress. So we'll have to find each other elsewhere."

She looked at him, a small smirk coming to her face while he regained himself from her sudden kiss.

"Fear not. I will come for you after you enter the party itself. The less attention drawn to me, the better. You shall have your spotlight, and then we will meet."

He spoke with finality, and Christine knew it would be best not to argue. They shouldn't draw attention to him, as he had no place in society, no background that people would know him by. Too many questions would only lead to more problems.

"Very well. But when someone inevitably asks who you are, what shall we say? You need at least some background to share with them." She stroked his left cheek as she spoke, and he leaned against her fingers.

"Fret not. I have already created an appropriate false persona." He raised an eyebrow at her surprised expression. "I have needed false identification previously. Acquiring paperwork is not difficult."

She turned to face him more fully, allowing their legs to brush together.

"So… who are you?" She looked at his eyes, dreading the glint in them. Surely he didn't make his name…

"Erik DesRosiers, at your service."

Christine blinked, before a few giggles escaped her mouth. Erik pouted slightly.

"Did you expect me to become Monsieur Fantome? Or perhaps Ombre?"

She looked at him, a slight blush covering her cheeks.

"Will you take offense if I say yes?" She cupped his cheek when he scowled slightly. "I thought perhaps you would take a name that would connect you to the Opera Ghost. You love to tease and provoke those around you. You cannot blame me for believing a false name would be another joke."

His lips thinned, and he shrugged noncommittally.

"I do enjoy provoking those fools. But this evening will be… significant. I do not wish to tie myself to a joke for life."

Christine's breath caught in her throat as she took in the true meaning of his words. The new name, DesRosiers, would be how he would be known in society from tonight onwards. He'd chosen a name that was not suspicious, but that held significance to him. Erik DesRosiers. Erik "of the roses."

His name was not a reference to his position at the Opera. It was a reference to her, and to the gifts he gave to her after her performances. His trademark that only she knew.

It would also be the name she would take later in her life, should they finally be married.

She placed another swift kiss on his lips, catching him off guard once again. This time she slid from the armrest and sprawled across him. His hands fluttered clumsily in the air for a few moments before settling tentatively on her upper back and shoulders. One tangled in her hair.

She broke away finally, and saw that Erik's eyes were somewhat glazed over. She laughed and rubbed her nose against his.

"That's a beautiful name," was all she whispered. He blinked a few times and took a steadying breath.

"It seemed appropriate." And in a rare moment of bravery, Erik leaned forward to kiss her himself. She savored it, and when they parted, his smile was shy, and gentle. "I'm glad you like it."

**Christine's Dress: Since I can't post the link, if you want to see it, I'll try to give you Google directions. Look up Fort Lauderdale Swan Lake Costume and you should see it. In this, I extended the bottom into a full gown.**

**Christine's Mask: go to mask italia dot com and it is the cignetta silver/white mask. No alterations.**

**Christine's Shoes: I didn't actually address them in the chapter but this is them. I just made them cream colored to match the dress.**

**Analoguechic com / 2011 / 06 / remnants-random-fashion-goings-on**

**Erik's Mask: etsy com/ listing / 64282801 / raven-mask. I've extended the cheek portion on both sides so it is a fuller mask, covering his deformity. It is made of leather dyed black.**

**Thank you to all the reviews posted over the last few months! I hope you keep reading!**


	26. Unmasked

They parted for the afternoon.

Erik sent her back above with her costume carefully packaged, and he dropped her not far from the dormitories, placing a brief kiss on her brow before vanishing once more.

The dormitories were abuzz with dancers darting about, crowding the mirrors and making last minute adjustments to their costumes. The festivities weren't going to start until seven that evening, but with only three hours remaining, the girls were preparing themselves to perfection.

"Christine! Why aren't you getting ready?" Jammes dashed forward and took her left hand, pulling her toward her bed.

"I was getting my costume, Jammes. It only just arrived." Christine sat down and allowed Jammes to sit beside her.

"Oh! But are you sure it's going to fit? Have you tried it on?" Jammes reach forward and brushed the package with her finger tips.

"It fits," she reassured her, and picked up her brush. Her riotous mane of curls always took the most time, and she needed to at least comb it out before dressing.

Meg rushed over after a handful of minutes had passed.

"Here, I'll start with your hair, you handle your makeup. What kind of mask are you wearing?"

"It only covers the top half of my face." Christine handed over the brush, sitting at the first available vanity.

"Alright so we have to do the most on your eyes and lips. What color scheme do you want for your eyes?"

IIIIII

When everyone stood, dressed, primped, and pressed to perfection, an unspoken battle took place.

The girls presented themselves to each other at every turn. The more catty made scathing remarks of the lesser costumes, while the others tried to maintain a brave façade.

The opera house was, after all, a competition.

Despite her efforts, Christine couldn't quite ignore the eyes of the fellow dancers. Some had stared open mouthed, while others had burned red through their heavy makeup. The younger dancers, such as Jammes, had praised her openly.

For Christine was, to put it simply, a vision. Her hair shown like dark chocolate, pulled into an elegant braid and bun. The mask contrasted against it beautifully, and her lips were like rubies on her pale face.

The dress itself hugged her curves perfectly. The silken material had a subtle luminescence, making her appear to glow when the light caught it. The long, full skirt swayed as she walked so that Christine seemed to glide across the floor.

Even in her costumes on stage, it had never before been quite so clear just how beautiful Christine Daae was.

Her appearance caused her coworkers to choose sides. Many of the girls hissed and whispered about where she could have gotten such a gown, or whose bed she had shared to be given it. The answer was typically given that it was from the Vicomte. He was her escort for the evening, wasn't he?

Others latched onto her arms for a moment or two, begging to know where she'd gotten her costume, for she looked "Heavenly! Stunning! Beautiful!" Christine only smiled, thanked them for their compliments, and said that it was a gift from her suitor.

There was little division among the men, for they all shared one common thought: whoever managed to have Christine Daae in bed was a very fortunate fellow. The only disagreement they had was on how easy she would be to persuade.

However, there was only one opinion that mattered to Christine as she walked through the large doors into the ball. And it certainly wasn't that of her colleagues, bosses, or patrons.

Unfortunately, she would not receive his opinion for some time. The moment she entered the grand room, she was taken a little aggressively by the arm.

Monsieur Firmin gave her a hurried greeting, and began to explain as he led her a little ways into the crowd.

"It seems your public, Mademoiselle Daae, is clamoring for you. They've request an audience with you." He turned to her then, anxiety and ferocity in his eyes. Christine fought the urge to tug her arm away from his disconcerting gaze. "You must be sure to keep them happy."

She nodded, though such a response was not even necessary.

After a few steps she was presented to many faces, most of whom she could not distinguish. Monsieur Andre immediately made himself known, and introduced her to the group.

"Ah, your requested Diva, Messieurs and Mesdames! The lovely Daae!"

The eyes of about seven men and women found her. She curtsied gracefully.

"Bonsoir, Messieurs, Mesdames."

The patrons inclined their heads. The women looked at her approvingly, if not a little enviously. The men eyed her a little too intimately, but she paid it little mind. One man stepped forward, his arm hooked to an elderly woman dressed in dark burgundy with a long wand, and Christine recognized them from the night she took Carlotta's place. The woman had praised her to the managers.

"Bonsoir, La Daae. You look stunning this evening." The woman looked her up and down. "We were just discussing your promotion with the managers."

Christine thanked her for the compliment, but could not keep the confusion off her face. The young man stepped forward again, taking her hand and kissing it.

"Yes, it seems that your managers have needed some additional input from their patrons. Apparently our opinions were disregarded." He shot Andre and Firmin a slight glare, who began tittering nervously.

"Of course your opinions were not disregarded!" Firmin said loudly, earning him several glances.

"Quite! We value any input you give us!" Andre chimed in, his hand clenched in a tight fist around the stem of his elephant mask.

"Indeed? Why then was La Daae not given a singing role in any of the productions these last few weeks?" Asked another woman, dressed in flowing orange and a monarch mask. "We did tell you we preferred her to La Carlotta, yet only the Diva has starred in your productions. Why is that?"

As if on cue, a trilling voice broke the conversation of the small group.

"Messieurs! Mesdames! 'Ow lovely to see you!"

Christine barely even had time to grimace and turn her head before she was not so subtly hip-checked by the overbearing Diva. She stumbled slightly to the side as Carlotta shielded her from the crowd with her skirts and overly large fan.

Carlotta's costume matched the Diva's personality to a tee. She appeared before the patrons as a strutting peacock, complete with a large tail of feathers sticking up from her derriere. Her fan was also made of peacock tail feathers, which tickled Christine's exposed nose irritatingly.

"Forgive me for not greeting you sooner! I was making my way over to you but kept being stopped by our guests!" Carlotta gave a deep curtsey, her rear bumping Christine further back.

Christine let out a small noise of alarm as she teetered dangerously for a moment, only to be saved by strong hands on her shoulders. Her hand came to her chest as she felt them steady her.

"Are you alright, Little Lotte?"

Christine felt herself flush uncomfortably at feeling Raoul's body against hers. She quickly stepped out from under his hands, smoothing her gown to give her hands something to do.

Looking at him quickly, she saw that his costume was extremely similar, if not the same, to the costume he'd worn to their first masquerade together. His comical military attire was pristine, and like the last time, he wore no mask.

"Yes, quite fine. Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte." Even after everything that had happened, it still felt strange addressing Raoul in such a way.

Raoul seemed to notice as well, for when he stepped beside her and met her eyes, his eyebrow was raised, and he looked confused.

"Vicomte? Christine, you've known me since we were children, and you have never addressed me by my title before."

She inclined her head toward the group in front of them.

"It would be improper to address you as Raoul here. You are the patron of our opera house, and must be addressed with respect."

Raoul looked at her, perplexed, and opened his mouth to make a reply, when Christine's attention was diverted back to the patrons before them.

"In any event, we were just speaking with La Daae, Signora."

A woman shifted past the sputtering Diva, never having been disregarded so easily. It was the monarch, and she linked her arm with Christine's.

She led her away, and Christine heard a few more following after her. She swallowed nervously.

"La Daae, would you do us the courtesy of a song? It seems it has been far too long since we heard your lovely voice."

Christine's eyes widened as she looked at the young man who'd spoken. She heard Carlotta give an indignant squeak behind them, and suddenly the managers were at her right side.

"If the guests so request, we shall provide!" Firmin exclaimed dramatically, taking one of Christine's hands and extricating her from the woman's arm.

"You seem to have gathered quite the little following, Mademoiselle Daae. You must do your best to keep them happy." Andre said in hushed tones, watching her warily.

She was guided to the main stairs, earning many stares as the group marched together.

The managers placed her a few steps high, and started to clap enthusiastically.

"Messieurs! Mesdames! We of the Opera Populaire now present to you, La Daae, who will treat you to a song!" The managers bowed deeply as they maneuvered away from her, leaving her alone on the stairs.

She swallowed tentatively, aware of the many eyes on her. _This is what you love_, she reminded herself. _You've performed before thousands. This is no different_. And yet, it _was_ different. This performance was impromptu, much like the first time she'd sung for the managers. And even then, she'd had a song ready for her. She could sing _Think of Me _once again, she supposed, but her audience had already heard it. What should she sing?

"_Christine_._"_

Her name whispered in her ear as if a sign from God, only she knew well it was from an angel. She swallowed once more, and took a deep breath, the right song immediately coming to her mind.

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation…_

She knew every word, having dreamt of that night more times than she could count. And she was sure she'd heard him singing it more than once in the last weeks.

The audience watched with rapt faces, eyes focused behind their masks. She looked out over the crowd as she sang, noticing the nerves of the managers. They dabbed their hairlines, glancing at the reactions of the patrons.

Raoul met her gaze for a moment, his smile genuine and eyes loving. She didn't linger on him long, wanting to continue searching the crowd for the one whose opinion and love mattered now.

She saw the Girys, with Madame regal black attire a stark contrast to Meg's bright butterfly costume. Madame did not look overly pleased, her eyes sharp on Christine. Meg watched with wide eyes behind her mask, her mouth hanging open.

Carlotta was fuming toward the back of the crowd. Piangi stood at her side, petting her right hand as she glared. She saw her lean towards the crowd, muttering something to those nearest to her.

But Christine paid her little attention as she had finally laid her eyes on a dark, full face mask. He stood toward the center of the crowd, off on the left side. He was dressed completely in black, from the ominous mask to the elegant suit.

He was too far away to hold his gaze, but she looked at him every few moments as she sang. He raised a glass toward her as a high note rang out, and she could have sworn his eyes closed gently.

She brought the haunting melody to its gentle close, the final note echoing gently throughout the large room. Even before her mouth closed, the applause erupted from the crowd with cries of "Brava! Brava!" and "Encore!" She curtseyed gracefully, looking out over the crowd for her angel. He had moved subtly across the floor, and she noticed he made his way toward the Girys.

She took a few steps back down the stairs, only to be blocked by the mass of guests, all clamoring to speak with her. She was subconsciously grateful for her mask, or it would have been too easy to see how flustered she was. Her hands were seized by the more zealous men, kisses covering the top of her gloves fingers. She retracted from them as tactfully as she could, continuing to push through. She thanked them for their praise, and finally gave up on her trek through the crowd. Erik would come to her when he was ready, or would send in Madame to collect her.

She glanced toward the grand clock. It was eight o' clock. She had hours left to spend at the ball, and with Erik.

Her musing was interrupted as a warm hand placed itself upon her shoulder. The fingers brushed the skin near her neck as the hand placed pressure on her to turn. She jumped slightly, moving to the side in an attempt to discourage the contact. But she realized it was Raoul touching her, and he didn't seem to notice her immediate discomfort.

"Dear Christine, your voice is angelic. You're this city's angel of music, indeed!" Raoul smiled warmly, and Christine forced one back. His hand remained on her shoulder, and she wished she could remove it tactfully. She opted to curtsey instead, and he hesitantly removed his hand.

"Merci, Monsieur le Vicomte. Your praise is most appreciated." She moved to the side again, attempting to place herself out of reach.

When she thought about it, Raoul had always been rather forward with his touches. It was as if he'd always assumed his touch would be wanted. He'd always assumed _he_ was wanted. Whether it was in her dressing room, at supper, or at a ball, Raoul had always assumed that his presence would brighten her life.

After nearly ten years of heartache and fights, however, Christine had no desire for Raoul to touch her again. Their marriage would never happen in this life, and she needed to nip his informality in the bud.

At that moment, a different, leaner hand placed itself on her other shoulder, and she glanced to the left to see Madame Giry over her. She placed a maternal hand on her arm, and started to draw her through the crowd.

"Messieurs, Mesdames, please. Mademoiselle Daae would like a moment. She will return to you shortly."

Without further explanation, Madame Giry led Christine out of the crowd gracefully, and patrons allowed their passage without objection. While she'd never understood it, Madame Giry also had had a commanding air about her that warranted obedience.

Madame guided her into the hall, and released her. Before Christine could even question her, she turned and departed back into the festivities.

She didn't have time to follow her, as a gloved hand stole around her neck, followed by an arm that drew her against a tall, lean body. He held her to him by her shoulders, and she raised her hands to grip his arm. His head dropped to the top of her head, and he inhaled deeply.

"Erik." She breathed happily, squeezing his arm affectionately.

"_Mon ange_. You are such perfection. An impossible combination of beauty, grace, and elegance. Like divinity made mortal." He dropped his head to her shoulder, and she felt that he had removed his mask.

She turned in his arms, wrapping her own around his back.

"I am hardly all that, Erik. And I am only what you helped make me." She tilted her head up in invitation, and was delighted when he took it, angling his head and taking her lips.

Erik was never quick to assume that he was wanted. He almost always needed permission for displays of affection. Even now, after being together for weeks, he was tentative about placing his hands on her.

His kiss was brief, but sweet, and he tucked her head against his neck after pulling away. She inhaled his scent, brushing her nose against his ear.

"Do you wish to disappear into the night, or rejoin the festivities? " She whispered to him, trailing her hands across his upper arms. She felt him sigh before drawing away, resting his hand delicately on her shoulders. She wished he wasn't wearing gloves.

"Your public awaits, La Daae. It would hurt your reputation to abandon them thus."

She pouted, and he grinned. Christine kissed it quickly, causing his eyes to widen at the impromptu affection.

"Very well, but we should always leave them wanting more. A few minutes alone here won't hurt anyone, will it?" Christine cocked her head coyly to the side, biting her lip. Erik's eyes inevitably watched her mouth before he answered.

"No, I can't imagine it would."

She shook her head in agreement as her right hand went to the back of his neck. He kissed her back eagerly, his hands going to her back.

They lost themselves in each other for many long minutes, pulling away to breath when necessary. Between kisses, Christine commented on his costume.

"You certainly looked mysterious, standing among the crowd."

Christine felt laughter ripple through him.

"But of course, my dear. The Opera Ghost will always appear in shadow."

"Mm," she hummed against his lips, "I thought you appeared rather dashing."

He made no response, but Christine felt his grip tighten.

Lost in each other's arms as they were, Erik's sharp ears still noticed the sound of approaching footsteps. He placed his hands on Christine's shoulder, pushing her away from him. She gave him a confused look before hearing the approach as well. She took her hands away from his body and straightened them down her dress.

They glanced at the door together as a shadow fell in the light of the entrance. It was quickly followed by a man. He wore no mask over his face, and both lurkers immediately recognized him as Raoul.

Christine reached out her left hand to clasp Erik's right, giving him a squeeze just as Raoul turned and spotted her. He smiled brightly and started to approach, but hesitated when he looked past her. His smile faded slightly as he stopped a few feet from them.

No one spoke for a few seconds, and tension started to build. Raoul kept his gaze focused on the dark figure behind Christine, and his glare was returned in force, although the mask made it difficult to tell. Christine drew herself up straighter, smoothing her left hand down her front once more before speaking.

"Hello again, Vicomte. Was there something you needed?"

Raoul glanced down at her face for a moment, his brows furrowed.

"There it is again. Why do you call me by that title, Christine? I've known you for years. Surely it is acceptable to call me Raoul?" He stepped forward again, but Christine gave Erik's hand a slight tug, and drew them around Raoul. She wanted to get back into the crowd and anyway from this awkward encounter as quickly as possible.

"I've told you, it wouldn't be proper to call you Raoul here. You are the patron of the opera house." She stopped when Raoul started spinning himself to stay next to her. Thinking quickly, she glanced behind her to meet Erik's eyes. He looked down at her with an unreadable expression. She gave him an apologetic smile, before disentangling their fingers.

"And, I don't believe you two gentlemen have been introduced. Monsieur le Vicomte, this is Monsieur Erik DesRosier, my escort for the evening. Erik, this is the Vicomte de Chagny, an old friend from my childhood."

She stepped to the side as Raoul held out his hand a bit suspiciously, it seemed.

"Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur." Christine looked at him, disconcerted. Did that greeting have a bite to it?

Erik looked at it for a moment before extending his own, his eyes flashing behind the mask.

"And you, Monsieur le Vicomte."

Their hands pumped once quickly before they stepped away from each other, and Christine felt a peculiar apprehension creep up her spine. It was almost like Erik and Raoul were about to face off in a duel. Erik already didn't appreciate Raoul's presence in the opera house, so his attitude wasn't such a surprise. But Raoul… Raoul had never met Erik before this moment. Even in the old world, Raoul hadn't actually seen Erik in person until the New Year's masquerade.

So why did he seem to be looking at Erik so warily, so… _disdainfully_?

Again, a warning raked up her spine, so forcefully that it caused her to shiver.

Both men looked at her. Raoul's eyebrows furrowed and he made to move toward her, only to be cut off by Erik. He moved between the two off them, effectively blocking Christine and Raoul's view of each other. He reached up and touched her left cheek with his right hand.

She didn't say anything as he stood before her, only looked into his eyes. After a moment, she flicked her eyes toward the door. She discreetly gave him her hand, and began to guide him away.

Christine looked past him toward the Vicomte, who gave them a peculiar stare.

"Well, I think it's time for us to rejoin the party. We don't have masquerades every night, now do we? We shall see you inside, Monsieur le Vicomte." She gave him a small wave as she linked her arm with Erik's.

They entered the grand room arm in arm. Christine's left hand rested on Erik's left, above the elbow where her right hand was securely placed. They drew many gazes as they approached the dance floor, easily taking their positions among the throngs. Their timing was perfect as a new song began to play as they joined the dancing. To anyone watching, they never looked away from each other, and seemed lost in each other's eyes. The reality was not quite so care-free.

"I'm sorry, Erik. You know I've continuously refused his company." Christine said as they whirled, hating the indifferent look in his eyes.

"He seems to believe he can wear you down with his winning smiles, dinner invitations, and perfectly coiffed hair." Erik scoffed, looking away from her briefly. To his surprise, she snickered. He looked back down at her with an invisible eyebrow raised. "Something amusing, my dear?"

"Only your comment on his hair, darling. Raoul does seem to pay too much attention to his blonde locks, doesn't he?" She gave him her own winning smile. Erik scowled at calling him by his Christian name, but pursed his lips in amusement at her comment.

"Little fop is rather similar to the vain little ballet rats," he said aloofly, happily earning another laugh from her. He was always mesmerized when she lightly tossed her head back and laughed as she did now, the sound resembling bells in his ears.

"You are wicked, Erik," she giggled as he spun her again.

"Could the Opera Ghost be anything else?" His reply made her cock her head and gaze at him strangely. Erik wanted to avert his eyes, but it was as though he were transfixed.

"You are many things, my phantom." She said no more, and the music played on.

IIIIIII

The couples swayed across the dance floor, blending perfectly with each other. As the evening progressed and feet began to ache, Christine took Erik by the hand away from the dense crowds.

She had not missed the anxiety that had begun to form in his eyes. They flicked about nervously, and it occurred to her that it was the continued presence of so many people. Was he unable to handle the crowds after so long?

Christine remembered too late that he'd never gone among the crowds at Coney Island. At least, he hadn't done so while she'd been there. Madame Giry had run the park for him, why the Trio of freaks had handled advertising.

Had he stayed locked up in that tower for ten years, pouring his heart out into his organ and inventions? She remembered he'd gain some color, so he must have gone out sometimes.

When they acquired two glasses of champagne and moved back toward a less populated corner, Christine's open arm was grabbed, causing her to stumble slightly. She turned to see Meg, grinning, merry, and at least a little tipsy. She too had a champagne glass, although hers was nearly empty.

Christine smiled in surprise at her, reaching out to stop Erik in his quest for seclusion. He looked down and saw Meg, and he calmed somewhat.

"Christine, you've yet to introduce me to your suitor!" Meg looked up at him, her eyes scanning his form and what little she could see of his face. He stiffened slightly at her scrutiny, and Christine took his left arm again.

"Meg, this is Erik DesRosier. Erik, this is Meg Giry, a very dear friend of mine."

Meg broke away from Christine and gave a clumsy curtsey, and confirmed her suspicion of Meg's sobriety.

"It is such a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur." Meg giggled slightly, and Erik gave her only a stiff bow of acknowledgement.

"Mademoiselle Giry."

Before the conversation could progress, Madame appeared before them, and took Meg rather firmly by the arm. She looked less than pleased with her daughter, and began to steer her away.

"It seems to me that some guests have been oversampling the wine."

Christine covered her mouth to stifle her laugh, pitying the lecture Meg could expect in the morning, or even that night. However, when she looked at Erik, her mirth faded.

He was looking at Meg like he'd looked at Raoul. There was darkness in his eyes, and his posture radiated tension.

Confused, she reached up to cup his cheek as best she could with his mask.

Erik blinked rapidly, looking around the room as if startled at his location. He looked down at her a little wide-eyed, before relaxing and taking the hand at his cheek in his own.

"Come, let us see if we cannot-"

"Christine!"

She tensed, her grip on Erik's hand instinctively tightening, and she felt his do the same. She inhaled a calming breath before turning to Raoul.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, are you enjoying yourself?" Christine asked pleasantly, acutely aware the Erik was radiating tension.

"Quite, and I was hoping I could enjoy a dance with you as well, Little Lotte." He bowed slightly, and extended his right hand toward her. She looked at it apprehensively, wishing to turn away, but knowing such a course of action would cause irreparable insult. She looked to see other sets of eyes watching her, including Firmin. His brows were furrowed, and he gave a sharp nod. She had no choice.

"Certainly, Monsieur." She turned to Erik once more, seeing a storm in his emerald eyes. She brushed her thumb across his knuckles and squeezed his fist between both her palms. "I'll return shortly, darling."

Her endearment had the desired effect, as Erik's eyes became less hostile, and he gave a nod before releasing her.

Raoul wasted no time in securing her hand and pulling her toward the dancing once more. Christine bit back a complaint about his tugging.

He placed her arm on his shoulder, and the dance began. Christine averted her eyes, hoping to give the appearance that Raoul's dance with her was insignificant.

"What has happened, Christine?"

She looked at Raoul, arching an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

Raoul sighed in frustration.

"Why have you insisted on this distance between us? We were so close as children. You seemed so happy to see me again that night I came to your dressing room, and now… now it's as if you can't stand the sight of me," he looked into her eyes, and his own were hurt. "You won't even call me by my name."

Christine swallowed nervously, but answered him.

"Raoul," she sighed, and he seemed pleased at first, "there are certain stigmas attached to fraternizing with patrons." He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off quickly. "Every time we address each other informally, Raoul, more rumors spread about our relationship." She paused, and looked at him a little apologetically. "I cannot afford to have that continue, not with my career so fresh."

Raoul gave a light scoff, and Christine bristled.

"Come now, Little Lotte. No one will care if we are seen together. And on that note," and he leaned in closer, too close, smiling boyishly, "I would very much like to see more of you in the future."

Christine felt her heart clench, but not the way she knew Raoul would like. She remembered this face he wore. It was youthful, full of promise, and content with the feeling of belonging. Raoul was confident of his place in the world, in _this_ world of parties, champagne, and upperclassmen.

But this world would break her, and her presence in it would destroy him.

"I'm not certain that would be best, Raoul."

He looked uncertain, and they twirled once more.

"Christine, have I done something to offend you? Tell me, and I will-"

"You have not, Raoul. But, there is already someone whose company I keep."

She did not expect Raoul's reaction. His eyes seemed to go very wide, and he stuttered a few times. He lost focus on the dance, and they both stumbled awkwardly. She looked at him, alarmed.

"Raoul, what-"

"You've accepted another in your life? Who?" He demanded. Raoul looked confused and angry, and his apparent alarm translated into his hold on her, which tightened uncomfortably.

'Raoul, you're holding me too tight-"

"Not that man? That E-Erik DesRosier?" He drew closer to her, and she started to struggle slightly in his arms. What was _wrong_ with him?

"Raoul, let me go-"

"Christine, you cannot – what are you thinking? He's – he's, you cannot be with him!" His voice was growing louder, people started to glance at them, disturbed.

Alarm, anger, and anxiety made Christine finally wrench herself from his arms, and begin to lose her balance. She stumbled away from him, sliding in her raised shoes and pushing against his chest. He snatched at the top of her arms, attempting to keep her with him. She twisted away, and her left shoe detached from her heel. Her ankle rolled, painfully, and she gave a cry as her balance was lost.

At her cry, Raoul released her, recoiling from her as if she burned him. As she swung her arms to try and stay upright, time seemed to slow with a queer sense of déjà vu.

_ Raoul… has done this before. When he would lash out at me, and hurt me enough to cry, he would jump away from my body as if… as if he could dodge the blame if he were far enough away. What is __**happening**__?_

She fully expected the feeling of cold marble to strike her left side at any moment. She'd hit the floor more than once when Raoul flew into a drunken rage.

Instead, she felt strong hands take hold of her upper arms, lifting her against a strong chest. She fell against the figure heavily, wincing and giving a small cry as her left ankle throbbed. Her right hand clutched her savior's left arm, which had wrapped around her waist, keeping her propped against them.

Without really needing to, she looked up into Erik's eyes, unsurprised by the fury he emitted. He looked at her for only a moment before turning his glare to Raoul.

He faltered under the look Erik sent him before recovering enough to glare back. His right hand actually went to the hilt of his sword prop.

Wincing in pain, Christine grabbed the lapels of Erik's jacket, bringing his attention back to her. Unwilling tears filled her eyes at the sharp pain, and Erik wrapped his arm around her.

Madame Giry was at her side as well, whispering something into Erik's ear. He didn't move, seeming to disregard whatever she said. She spared Christine a glance, and she gave Erik another message, her voice sounding like a hiss.

"You cannot do this here. Think of Christine."

Erik looked at her, wrapping his arm more securely around her. He looked at the Vicomte once more, who'd actually started to draw the sword from its hilt. His lip was curled back in a dreadful sneer.

_This is not Raoul, Raoul my sweetheart, Raoul the gallant, Raoul the caring. This is Raoul… my angry husband…_

"Erik, darling?"

He looked at her again, rage and indecision written in his eyes.

"I'd really like to be off the dance floor now," she said, and her voice trembled from the pain, and tears streaked past her eyes. Good lord, had she _broken_ her ankle?

Erik finally seemed to realize where he was and what was happening, as he wasted little time in sweeping her, dress and all, into his arms and swiftly seating her at a cushioned chair toward the back of the room. She winced as her foot was jarred, and Erik knelt in front of her, concern and fury warring across his face.

She reached out his right hand to cup his masked cheek, albeit with difficulty.

"I'm fine, sweetheart."

She watched his throat clench, but the anger did not leave his eyes.

"You are in pain, at his hands." His response left no doubt of his intentions.

"It doesn't matter," she begged, leaning close to him, watching as other guests made their way nearer. He looked at her sharply, what was visible of his mouth curled back and he snarled.

"It is punishable by death." His eyes were raging, he looked mad, and she was a little relieved when he broke eye contact. "He dared to harm you, _again_."

Christine felt a shiver of fear run up her spine at his quiet proclamation. The Phantom of the Opera glared at her under Erik's mask, and she hated him. But what had he just said?

"Erik, wh-what do you mean? Raoul has never harmed me." Not in this life, at least.

Erik looked up at her again, his eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but paused, as if considering. Christine froze, looking at him, as he shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head as if to clear it. He looked at her again, still shaking his head slightly.

"He… is a fiend…"

She grabbed his hands and brought them near her, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, uncaring that she was kissing his leather gloves.

"No, no, no," she moaned, tears falling behind her mask. Goodness knows what she would look like when she took it off. "Please, please just take me home-"

"Everything quite alright, mademoiselle?"

Andre had approached, no doubt draw in by the whispers and talk about the incident. He crouched down slightly, though seemed a little wary of Erik.

She summoned a reassuring smile.

"Just a mishap on the dance floor, Monsieur. I'm going to retire for the evening."

Erik was hunched over her hands, and his eyes were frantic behind his mask. He did not glance at Andre. His body leaned away from him as Andre drew closer.

"Really, mademoiselle? That is a shame, it's nearly midnight. You think you cannot last till the unmasking?" Andre nodded up and down suggestively, hoping to make her stay, but Erik gently pulled her up, supporting her left side.

"I am sorry, Monsieur Andre. But my ankle has been injured, and I am unable to stay on my feet." She leaned heavily against Erik's side. "I really must go."

Andre's brows furrowed, and he frowned deeply.

"If you insist, La Daae. We shall speak with you on Monday." His voice was reprimanding, and she bristled silently. She felt Erik stiffen beside her and clasped his hand again.

"Goodnight, Monsieur."  
>And within moments Erik and she were flying down the darken hallway of the Opera House. He'd swept her into his arms the moment they were out of sight, and as they disappeared into the dark, both heard a voice calling after them, and quick footsteps approaching.<p>

"Christine! Christine! You cannot leave with him! _Christine_!"

Without hesitation Erik whisked them to the side, and she realized they were in one of his passage ways. She heard Raoul speed past where they hid, his footsteps echoing loudly in the now empty hallway.

Erik brought her down, far enough that the world was silent except for his footsteps and the eerie drips and creaks of the underground. Christine let out small winces of pain if he jostled her too suddenly, and Erik would grip her tightly, but would not halt his speed.

He laid her gently in the boat, evening stopping long enough to cover her in a blanket, before he rowed them swiftly toward his home. He still hadn't said a word.

"Erik?"

He gave no response, but his lips were moving silently. She swallowed nervously, sitting up slightly and wincing as she moved her ankle.

"_Don't move_!" he hissed, and she shrank back a little. He laughed mockingly, looking back out over the lake.

"Down once more to my dungeon…"

Christine's head snapped up as she stared at him, and there was no disguising her shock and terror.

_This cannot be_.

"Erik, please, what are you-"

"I'm stealing you away, my Christine! My bride! Stealing you from the dashing Vicomte! I've brought you down to my lair, you see! But then he shall follow! He shall follow and beg for your freedom! And then the climax of our lives will commence!"

And he laughed, loud and terrifying, and they reached the shore.

She stared at him, unable to make a reply. Her mind seemed blank.

He reached down to take her by the arm, lifting her to her feet and trying to force her to walk. She cried out and collapsed, her left leg caving in. She sobbed when Erik caught her around the waist again, and she clutched at his arm.

"If you won't walk on your own I will drag you!"

"Erik, please!" she sobbed, digging her fingers into his sleeve. She wrapped her arms tightly around his left, clinging to him not only for support but from her turbulent emotions. "I _can't_ walk, Erik! I can't! My ankle is broken!"

He'd been in the process of shoving her forward when her words seemed to reach him. He stopped his hurried movement and grabbed her shoulder with his right hand, pulling her against his chest as he lifted her into his arms again.

She sobbed in relief, resting her head against his shoulder. He stared at her, his eyes scanning her face, and she needed to see him clearly.

"You… injured it… upstairs?" His question startled her, and she stopped her attempt to take his mask. She nodded slowly, and when her mask brushed against his jacket, she reached up and removed it easily. Erik seemed to realize that he was wearing the raven mask, for he reached up and felt it carefully. She laid her land over his and tugged, pulling the mask away. He jerked slightly, but did not stop her.

Finally able to see his face, she leaned back and held his gaze.

"Please take me inside, Erik. I need to lie down."

He nodded in a quick jerk of the head and took her inside. He looked around the main room, and seemed to realize he had no lounge. He set her on his throne chair carefully. She grimaced as she bent over, reaching beneath her lengthy gown to remove her shoe.

"Lean back, I will do it."

Erik didn't wait for her accept his order before he knelt in front of her, brazenly sliding his fingers beneath her skirt and finding her ankle. He handled it gently, pushing up her skirts and carefully hooking his fingertips along the edge. He pulled it away slowly, and both realized that her ankle had swelled to the point that the shoe would need to be removed forcefully. She pressed her lips together as he gave a quick yank. She hunched over and yelled, clamping her hand over her mouth as more tears flowed down her face. He kept her ankle in his hand, staring at it. He traced the puffy skin lightly with his fingertips, applying the barest amount of pressure. She reached out slowly to cup his good cheek, and he looked into her face, eyes wide with terror.

"Erik," she pleaded, "what is _wrong_? What happened to you?"

To her surprise, he grew angry, and dropped her ankle back down. He rose, spinning away from her and raking both hand through his hair.

"What happened to _me_? What has happened to _you_? To everything! Everything is wrong!" He still didn't look at her, and went to his piano. He grabbed fistful of his music before turning to face the room, throwing them in front of him. She flinched back as they rained down on the room.

"I didn't write this! None of it! Happy melodies! Music that inspires hope and romance! _I never wrote them before_!" He sank backwards against the front of the piano, both hands gripping the top rail awkwardly. Erik panted, looking around the room as if he didn't know where he was. Finally, his crazed gaze found Christine.

"You are crying." He said it without emotion, as if commenting on the weather.

Christine took a shuddering breath, reaching up to wipe at both cheeks. Her hand came away streaked with black. She had to look ghastly.

Erik pulled himself tightly against the piano mount. He looked her up and down quickly.

"You wear my dress, one I made for you, and you are crying." Neither spoke for a few moments.

"_Yes,_" he hissed. She recoiled back against the chair and the look on his face. For one awful moment, she saw how some people came to fear him as the Devil's Child.

"Yes, you hate me! I brought you down here, forced you into the dress, and you cry and weep for me to stop! And that means," he looked out toward the lake, walking away from the piano. He clutched at the grate, gazing out into the darkness before he shouted.

"Come along now, Vicomte! You insignificant brat! Come for your dear beloved! I have her in my clutches!"

Christine put her face in her hands, staring at the cold floor through her fingertips. Her breath was coming fast, and she felt sick.

_It's not possible. He can't remember this. It didn't _happen. _We're supposed to live our lives free of this madness_.

Erik screamed and raved, banging against the grate. The echoes of everything seemed to split her head. She clutched at her ears to try and block out the racket to no avail. When she could take no more, she finally looked up at him and shrieked.

_ "STOP IT_!"

He whirled around to face her, eyes wide and panting heavily. He stared at her for a moment, speechless. He blinked many times, squeezing his eyes shut and staring at her blankly.

Weakly, she braced her arms on the left arm rest and attempted to rise. He watched for a moment until she winced at the pressure on her left leg. Suddenly he was rushing to her side, reaching out to take her hands and support her. But at the last moment, Erik's hands stopped above hers. They started floating around her arms, as if afraid to make contact.

She looked at him from her slightly hunched position. His face was twitching oddly. He kept squinting his eyes and pressing and opening his lips. He looked lost, as if he didn't know where he was or what was happening.

_Could he possibly remember it? How can this be_?

Using what little strength she had in her arms, Christine shoved herself off the arm rest and seized his lapels. He gave a small cry of alarm, and his hands went to her waist, but again refused to make contact.

She gave him less than a second to pull away before fiercely pressing her lips to his.

And his reaction was exactly as it had been the first time, in another world and time.

She gripped him tightly to keep him with her as his body convulsed and jerked. She didn't feel his hands on her, but from the position of his arms guessed that they were jutting away from their bodies.

She pulled away for a few seconds, looking at his face. He stared at her still as if she wasn't real, as if he couldn't believe this was happening.

Christine put both hands on his head and pulled him in once more, one hand on his ravaged cheek and the other at his neck.

Erik was calmer this time, though it could not be said he fully reciprocated her display. Finally, she felt his fingertips gently settle on her back, if only for a moment.

He pulled away from her when she released him, but allowed her to keep a grip on his jacket so she did not tumble to the ground.

He stared at her for a long moment, and she said nothing.

Slowly, so slowly, one hand reached up and brushed her left cheek with its knuckles. He closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly, as if pondering something. Or remembering. Softly, Erik sang and opened his eyes.

"_Christine, I love you_."

And she could doubt no longer.

**BAHBAHBUMMMM PLOT TWIST. My apologies for such a delay. Watch for more, and let me know how you felt about the Part I Finale!**


	27. Souls' Affirmation

**Since I want to get my updates out faster, I'm going to start writing chapters a little shorter, and not drop 7000 words updates every few months.**

**So, here's a little fluff with your plot? Happy Valentine's Day!**

"Erik," she breathed, holding his cheeks as tears started to fall. He looked at her with such agony in his eyes; he looked like he wanted to die.

"_Christine_," he whispered brokenly. His hands came up to cover hers on his cheeks, and he wrapped his fingers around them. "Christine, what is _happening_ to me?"

"I don't know."

She searched his face for any lingering signs of madness, but now he just looked broken. Utterly broken, and lost.

Just like last time.

"But I'm here, Erik. I'm here, with you, and I'm not going anywhere."

He started to shake his head, pulling her hands away from his face.

"Yes, you are. You're leaving now. I told you I loved you, and now you leave."

He backed away, running a hand through his hair. She stumbled, and reached back to balance on the throne once again. He was hunched over, hands fisted at the sides of his head. He shook it viciously, and gave a frustrated shout.

"Erik, _please_, I'm not going to leave you. You must calm down and rest-"

"But you came _back_."

The fervency of his declaration startled her, and when he whirled to face her suddenly, she felt as if she'd been transported to another time.

The look of disbelief, of sheer wonder on his face, was identical to the looked he'd had when she'd gone to find him on the eve of her wedding. When he'd held a lantern to his face and hers, and had reached out to touch her cheek so hesitantly, he'd looked as he did now.

And like that long ago night, he reached for her now, and touched her left cheek with his fingers, coating them in her tears and rouge.

"You came back to me," he moaned, and abruptly she was in his arms. Her arms hung limply at her sides for a moment before she tentatively returned his embrace.

He buried his head against her neck, one arm encircling her back while the other tangled in her hair. He was shaking, and it jarred her ankle.

She gave a small wince, and brought her hands to the backs of his shoulders, hoping to calm him.

"Erik, Erik," she whispered, rubbing his back lightly. She felt tears strike her neck, and her own eyes swam with moisture. "Darling, _please_, I will never leave you alone," she whispered. "I will always be here. I lo-"

"I must leave you!"

With a sharp cry he broke away from her, and she landed on the throne with a thud. Her ankle was still throbbing and she yelped from the pain.

The madness had returned to his eyes, and she flattened her back against the chair. He backed away from her until he struck the table filled with his writings. He covered his mouth with his right hand, and leaned heavily on his left arm, his legs shaking beneath him.

"I must leave you. I-I cannot remain! I will destroy you, ruin your life beyond repair. I have nothing left for you, Christine." He stopped raving for a moment to stare at her, agony written across his features. "Oh, Christine, I want you to be _happy_. _Please_, be happy! I…I won't be able to make you happy."

He finally collapsed, his left hand still hanging from the edge of the table.

He bent over, covering his eyes with his right hand. The cavern was quickly filled with the sound of his sobs.

Christine remained frozen in the chair for a few moments, watching him. She could not process what was happening in front of her. She could not force her body to move, to approach him. She couldn't do anything for a few moments except stare, until finally she regained the ability to think.

_He is not just remembering that terrible night in this cavern with Raoul. It's as if he is slowly remembering…everything._

She lowered her feet to the floor, tentatively putting weight on her right foot. It held steady as she stood, keeping her swollen ankle aloft. She put her left hand on the top of the throne chair, and maneuvered herself to the side without stepping down on her left foot.

When she looked back at her raving angel, he had moved his hand to cover his mouth, and stared in front of him. She swallowed and took a deep breath, watching as he remained unmoving on the floor.

Slowly, he used his left hand to pull himself up from the floor. He beautiful black suit was covering in dust along the pant legs, and his jacket had stains from the grate.

He pressed his right hand to his forehead as if he had a headache, and squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a moment.

When he opened them again, and sought her form, his eyes had changed again. They seemed clearer, and Christine felt hope swell in her chest. Perhaps the madness was over…

"I have an empire of freaks and towers."

He spoke the words softly, but clearly. He lowered his hand so that both gripped the edge of his work table, and rested his backside against the edge.

She watched him silently, dread still gripping her.

"I… have power once again. I have a… semblance of a life."

He looked out across his lair slowly, eyes lingering on the lake, his piano, and throne. She couldn't help but notice that he skipped her completely.

"It is… not enough."

And then his eyes found hers, and the sheer possession in them took her breath away.

He stood away from the table, and she swallowed nervously.

"It… will _never_ be enough. All the wealth this miserable world has to offer is not enough. Nothing can fill this hole." He leaned over slightly, eyes never leaving hers, as he clutched his heart. Her lip trembled as she fought tears.

"You are _everything._ No singer could match your voice. No woman could match your face. And there were so many," he trailed off, and she felt a spike of jealousy curl in her gut. "So many actresses, and I knew they were beautiful. I knew but," she frowned at him, not wanting to hear any more if he went where she thought he was going, "I could never want any of them. I just kept looking for you."

He stalked toward her slowly, like a predator, and Christine remained frozen at the chair, unwilling to break his dialogue.

"I accepted it, in the end. I accepted that I would have only a memory to live with for the rest of my days. So long as _you_ were happy and well, the rest seemed inconsequential."

He stopped his approach, and his eyes looked down her figure almost lazily, and she blushed even in her frozen state.

"And then I heard that the Vicomte de Chagny was ruining his family. He'd squandered his fortune and was in dire straits. And a plan," he waved a hand lightly around the right side of his head, "simply grew in my mind, and my life had a purpose once again." He drew closer again, and Christine leaned against the throne chair, weak in the knees.

"You were in my grasp again, and you had not forgotten me."

He reached out, and lightly cupped her left cheek. His thumb brushed away a stray tear.

He gasped suddenly, and took both of her cheek in his hands, his fingers sliding into her falling hair.

"You _sang_ for me. You _chose me_." He searched her face, and after a moment, she blinked slowly, and nodded.

"Oh," he groaned, and rested his left cheek against her forehead, rubbing it against her gently. "My Christine, _my_ Christine. I have you in my arms, and you sang my music because it was what you wanted. You want _me_." He put his arms around her back and embraced her, and she did her best not to move her ankle and break the moment. She could not hold him, because he'd pinned her arms to her sides with his, but it did not matter. She pressed herself against him, and let him rest his head atop of hers. He breathed deeply, and she felt a small smile form on her face, despite the absurdity of the situation.

Quite suddenly, he was away from her again, horror coloring his face. He backed away from her, and looked around quickly, as if looking for a threat.

"You, you were, we have to go-" he doubled over, hands pressed against the side of his head again. He looked up sharply, turning away from her again. He looked around quickly, his eyes darting from corner to corner. It was as if he were watching something that wasn't there, and he put his arm out toward it, putting up his palms in an unmistakable gesture.

Christine shifted from her position on the throne chair, trying to stand a little taller.

_This must be the pier. He is scared. And that means next is_-

She tittered dangerously when she placed weight on her left foot, and gasped when she stumbled.

As Erik's eyes whipped to her falling form, she realized she'd made a mistake in moving.

"_No_!"

Erik was at her side in a moment, his left arm firm around her back as the right caught her across the front.

He lowered her quickly to the ground, his right palm pressing against her left side above her stomach.

"Christine! Christine, hold on. I'll get help. I…" he looked around wildly, keeping his hand pressed against my side.

Christine tried to remain calm, putting her left hand around his right arm and rubbing it gently.

He looked back at her again, and hesitantly lifted his hand from her side. He looked so confused, and opened his mouth to speak. Erik looked into her eyes, but could only give a small sound of confusion before pressing her against him, and holding her side again.

Christine rubbed her arm up and down his back as he started to shake.

"Please, please you _can't_ go. Christine, _please_. You can't…_die_."

She pulled her head away from him gently, and cupped her hand behind his neck.

Erik looked scared; his eyes were wide and cheeks wet with tears.

"Erik," she whispered, cupping his mangled cheek, "I'm right here. I'm fine, _ange_. No one is dying."

She wrapped her arm around him and lifted herself to his lips, kissing him fiercely.

This was not like the kiss they had shared as she died. That had been a goodbye, and they'd poured their souls into it because it was to be the last time.

This kiss was soul affirming. It was a clear, tangible reminder that they were both there, alive and in each other's arms.

Erik hesitated at first, simply allowing her to mold her lips to his. But after a few moments, the dam broke, and his arms were around her tightly, crushing her against his strong frame.

Their lips moved across each other, and Christine suddenly felt bold enough to let her tongue brush his bottom lip. He inhaled shakily and parted his lips slightly, and their mouths tangled together with new fervor.

Christine forgot the pain in her ankle while she was in his arms. She forgot that he'd been raving madly only moments before, and that he seemed to recall events that had been erased from history.

She only held him tightly, and tried to convey to him, and herself, that somehow everything would be well.

**Hope you enjoyed! Watch for more soon!**


	28. Lost Memory

**Still going! I'm trying to keep the chapters coming at about a rate of one per week, so here we go!**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I hope to clear up any confusion in the next few chapters!**

Eventually, Erik took his lips away from hers. He stared at her for a moment, his dark emerald eyes gazing into her blue with an intensity that shook her.

With a great, shuddering sigh, he laid his head against her right shoulder. She watched his body shudder for a few moments longer before calming. He took a large breath, burying his nose against her neck.

Without thinking, Christine reached her left hand back and started carefully plucking out the pins and adornments from her skewed curls. Little by little her hair fell behind her, and Erik's left hand at her back crept upwards, taking the strands in his fingers.

He brought her rich curls to his lips, kissing them gently.

His right hand lifted to her shoulder, and he leaned away from her again.

Christine stared at him, stroking his back once again.

Erik didn't look mad or passionate anymore. He simply looked exhausted.

"Christine, I… I do not understand," he whispered, barely moving his lips.

She wished she could reassure him, but could not think of what to say. How could she explain that time had been rewound? How could she explain her bizarre meeting with her father, and her sudden appearance now? Most of all, how could she explain why he had only just now remembered their former life?

Fortunately, Erik seemed content to think aloud for the moment, and spared her the burden.

"You were in my arms, still and lifeless, and I was screaming for you. I begged you to wake, but you stayed so still… And then I was singing to someone…" he trailed off, staring blankly ahead as she listened, carefully keeping her arms around him.

"Everything just faded, and suddenly we were here…" he looked at her uncertainly, and touched her cheek again. "And now…" he trailed off, unable to continue. Erik could not voice the impossibility of his situation, or the chaos taking place in his mind.

Two sets of memories seemed to be crashing against each other like waves on the sea, each side attempting to overtake and blot out the other. One moment Christine had spent the last few weeks at his side, and the next he was alone, plotting his comeback with murderous jealousy.

"Erik," Christine whispered, lightly tracing his jaw with her left hand, "You must calm down, my love. I can explain everything to you."

He did not look at her, but hoisted her into his arms and began walking.

Christine gave a small gasp of surprise before securing her arms around his neck, pressing his face to his shoulder.

He walked quickly into her bedroom, and she though he would place her on the bed. Instead, he brought her into the luxurious lavatory, and set her gently on the seat before turning to the sink.

She watched as he took one of her expensive washcloths and wet it under the water. He brought it to her, and lifted it to her face.

"No," Christine protested, trying to wave away the soft cloth. "It will be ruined, the stains won't come out…" she trailed off when Erik carefully took her hand in his and placed it at her side, gently rubbing the cloth under her left cheek.

Erik focused on her cheeks as he moved the cloth gently across them, and Christine chose to remain silent. She stared at his face, which was now alarmingly blank.

Where had his despair gone? His panic? After his episode in the main room, she didn't know what to make of his apparent indifference.

She closed her eyes gently as he moved the cloth over them, gently taking away a layer of powder. After a moment he stood and went to the sink again, rinsing the cloth.

He spoke not a word, and Christine took a shaky breath.

"Erik?"

He did not respond, but poured a thick remover onto the cloth before returning to her.

Christine remained still once more as he delicately cleaned her face. She closed her eyes, and fisted her hands in her beautiful skirts. She was certain they were damaged from the night's events, and spared a thought for them. Erik had gone to such great lengths to see her happy, even designing a one-of-a-kind dress.

He ceased moving the cloth across her face, and let it fall to the floor. He stared down at her lap, eyes focused on her fisted hands. Erik carefully reached out with both hands and took her fingers, uncurling them from around the fabric.

He held her hands limply in her lap, staring at them unseeingly. She watched his face again, and swallowed when he remained still for several long minutes.

Finally, achingly slowly, he looked into her eyes, and his expression was guarded.

"You remember all of this."

Christine bit her lip, hesitating for a moment before nodding.

Erik's eyes narrowed in response, and he looked at her hands again. He waited a few moments before speaking again.

"You have remembered for quite some time."

Seeing as he would not look at her this time, Christine was forced to speak her answer this time.

"Yes," she whispered softly.

His hands clenched around hers for a moment before relaxing again.

"For how long?"

She hesitated again, fearing a violent outburst at her answer. But when Erik looked her in the eye, demanding an answer, she knew she had no choice.

"Since the morning you first brought me here."

Erik's eyes went wide, and he rose, stumbling away from her. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head slightly.

"You remembered all this and took my mask from me anyway?"

It was Christine's turn to look shocked as she sat up straighter, almost able to disregard the pain in her ankle.

"No! I didn't come back until after that! It was when I started talking to you!"

Erik clutched his chest as if struck by a sudden weight, and Christine cursed her inability to move.

"Yo-you!" He doubled over, running a hand down his exposed face. He looked at her disbelievingly. "You remembered all of this for that long, and said _nothing_!"

He looked at her as if she was a stranger, and Christine shook her head in denial.

"That's-"

"That morning, when you accepted me, you _knew_! And you let me believe-"

"I _couldn't_ say anything, Erik! What was I to say to you? That I remembered a-a past life? You would have though me mad!"

She leaned her right hand on back of the lavatory seat, pushing upward so that she stood, albeit shakily.

In an instance Erik's arms were around her again, carefully leading her out of the bathroom and toward her soft bed. He helped her sit on it gingerly, and Christine was amazed at his gentle control even when he was furious.

When she was settled, he backed away again, leaning against one of her dressers. His eyes were slits, and his breathing was heavy.

"You have deceived me. Weeks of lies and betrayals, Christine! Every moment-" he broke off for moment, running a hand down his face. A gasping sob broke through, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle it.

"Every moment we've been together, you've been conspiring against me! To control me!" Erik laughed humorlessly, and the sound sent a shiver up her spine.

"All my promises, my assurances to obey you, when you were holding all the cards! Biding your time so you could keep me under your thumb!" He cut himself off with a shudder, his laugher turning hysterical. "Y-you even knew exactly what to do to keep me under your spell. Kisses from my sweet Christine!" He covered his eyes with his hand while his laughter was half choked by sobs. "How could I resist?"

His knees buckled, and he let himself sit on the cold stone ground, pressing his hand firmly against his eyes.

Christine tried to control her own breathing as sobs took over. She leaned over the bed, unable to stand again, and reached her hand out to him. It did her little good, as he could not see her, but she needed to be nearer to him.

"No, Erik! Please, _listen_ to me!"

He gave no indication that he would, his body shaking violently again.

_He's going to have another episode. He has to calm down, this isn't safe for him._

"Darling, _please_." She waited for a few moments, and when he took a shuddering breath and stilled slightly, she began again.

"I have acted on those memories, you're right-"

He gave a small growl, and slammed one fist against the dresser, shaking it and knocking one bottle to the ground.

"But I have only used them to be nearer to _you_!"

Erik jerked his head up to look at her, fury and disbelief written across his face.

"Nearer to me!" he scoffed, rising swiftly and towering over her. "You have only acted to protect yourself from the Phantom! To protect yourself from-"

Whatever Erik was going to accuse her off next was abruptly cut off when Christine grabbed him firmly by his jacket. She brought herself close to his body and tugged, pulling his body unto the bed, where it landed awkwardly, half atop her left side and half dangling off the edge. He gasped, eyes wide as he bounced slightly from the impact.

Christine whimpered for her ankle, but kept her hands fisted in Erik's jacket.

She rolled them swiftly so that he was angled beneath her, and didn't waste a moment before pressing her lips to his.

He resisted at first. She noted, with a touch of sadness, that this was the first time in this life that he had fought a kiss. He tried to jerk his head away from her, separating their lips, but she brought one hand away from his jacket and held his face to hers, following his lips when he tried to move.

Christine felt his tears wet her hand, but would not stop, could not stop. She could not allow him to think as he did; that she only stayed with him to control him.

Finally, after a few moments, Erik allowed his eyes to drift closed, but instead of reciprocating her kiss, he became still beneath her.

She pulled back for a moment to look at him, pausing between kisses to study his face from her position above him.

She realized belatedly that she was now sprawled across him, her right leg between his and her chest atop his own.

Taking advantage of the situation, Christine brought both hands to his face and pressed kisses to it, smothering both the ravaged and smooth sides.

She kissed his eyelids, and felt the slight movement beneath when he twitched. She kissed across his brow and down his malformed nose before moving down his good cheek.

He tried to restrain himself, to fight his reaction to her, but she heard a moan or two as she went, and they reassured her that all was not lost.

Having finished with his left cheek, she placed one more on his mouth. Pleased to feel the slight return of pressure from his lips, she moved to his right cheek, and gave it the same attention as she had the left.

Erik thinned his lips to keep the groan down this time, and met with little success. Air rushed out his nose and he was certain she felt the vibrations in his throat. Would the night's failures never end?

Finally Christine brought her lips carefully to his ear, and he gave a violent tremble as her breath ghosted past the shell.

"This is not a lie, Erik," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.

She felt his throat clench beneath her fingers, but pressed on.

"I will tell you everything, my love. But you must promise to… to try to remain calm." She pressed a firm kiss to his sunken cheek, earning another breathy gasp. "You cannot keep getting so frantic, you will make yourself ill."

Many minutes passed as Erik fought to control himself. Christine stayed atop him, in part because she did not wish to move her ankle again, but mostly because it felt so right.

Finally, his shaking subsided, though his hands remained clenched in the bed sheets. He did not open his eyes, but when he exhaled heavily, he spoke without emotion.

"Proceed. From the beginning, if you don't mind."


	29. That Lost Life

**Hope you all enjoyed the latest installments! Let's see if I can keep the ball rolling!**

**Enjoy!**

Christine reached out with her right hand to stroke his left cheek. She brushed his hair away from his eyes and settled down beside him, taking his left hand in her own.

"I will tell you everything, Erik, but you must promise me something first." She paused and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

He raised an eyebrow in response.

"You must promise that no matter what I tell you, you will remember that I am _here_, in your arms, with _you_."

Erik's eyes narrowed, but he gave a nod.

Christine sighed, and sat up. She reached for his shoulders and brought them both to a sitting position.

Erik frowned, shifting away from her. Christine gave a strained smile before gesturing to her ankle.

"I wish to recline more comfortably, _mon ange._ Will you help me?"

Erik continued to stare uncomprehendingly, but quickly grasped her meaning when Christine's hands went to the ties at the back of her dress.

"Please, fetch one of my nightgowns for me?"

He pressed his lips together tightly, but stood without a word and opened her large armoire.

Christine deftly undid the top strings on her gown as Erik removed a long cotton gown from its hanger.

Without looking toward the bed, he tossed the nightgown in her direction and strode from the room without another word. She watched him close the door, and heard his receding footsteps as she finally slid out of the glamorous dress. It pooled around her ankles, and her corset followed after a few minutes of tugging at the tight strings.

Christine sagged gratefully, allowing her back to arch freely without the restrictive boning digging into her skin. She leaned forward, wincing as her ankle protested. Rolling down her stockings, she sighed in relief when both legs were finally free, and she sat on the bed in nothing but a thin chemise. She removed that after a few moments, and quickly covered herself in the nightgown. The buttons went to her neckline, and she stared at the door as she fastened them.

Was Erik waiting outside it once more, waiting for her to call him? Or was he further away in his room?

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Christine called out for her absent phantom.

"Erik? Are you there? You may come back in now. If you'd like-"

The door opened before she could finish her statement, and Erik strode in purposefully, bringing a long strip of cloth and a cup with him.

At first Christine intended to ask him why he carried such things, but her question was cut off as she took in his appearance.

Erik was wearing only a cotton nightshirt and long black sleeping pants. She hardly noticed him approaching her as she lost her concentration.

Christine frowned in expectation when he set the cup to the side and knelt before her leg. She bit her lip to stifle anymore more whimpers, and he carefully put his fingers around her bare ankle.

She tensed at the pressure, but released no more than a few pained gasps as Erik carefully wrapped it. She watched him carefully, and a peculiar thought came into her head.

Even in this, one of the most serious situations with him since their rebirth, Christine could not help but marvel at him. It was not for some overwhelming beauty or desire that she stared at him. Her Erik simply looked so very _human_ and… domestic at that moment, tending to her ankle in his sleep attire, that she smiled softly at the novelty.

Erik secured the cloth tightly and held her ankle for a moment longer, seeming to examine his work.

"Thank you," Christine whispered quietly.

Erik did not respond, but slowly lowered his head to place a kiss on the top of her bandaged foot.

He rose again, picking up the tea cup once more, and handed it to her without preamble.

"Drink. It will take away the pain."

Christine sniffed the contents, a cloudy liquid, and winced at the unpleasant smell.

"I did not instruct you to smell it. Simply to consume it."

She huffed in displeasure, but tipped the cup back. After three painful swallows, she emptied the cup.

She grimaced at the bitter taste, handing it back to him with small thanks. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement, setting the tea cup on the bedside table.

When he stood in front of her again, staring at her with that impenetrable gaze, she swallowed nervously.

"Please, rest here on the bed with me."

She pushed herself backwards with her hands, making her way toward the pillows. Erik put his hands under her knees and back, sliding her easily to the headboard. He helped her recline more comfortably against the bed, even taking a pillow to prop under her foot.

She exhaled shakily, and watched him climb back unto the bed, sliding up so their faces were near each other once again.

He trailed his finger tip lightly across her forehead, brushing the curls of her bangs.

"Now tell me," he said softly, but she heard the command in his voice.

IIII

Telling Erik everything turned out to be an extremely complex endeavor. The first complication arose when Christine did not know where to start. And once she had found a point to begin speaking, she had no choice but to break off on tangents to better explain herself.

"I have remembered that other life for weeks, Erik. It is difficult to explain how, and more importantly _why_."

She paused, closing her eyes as she thought back to the night she had… _died_.

"I… the last thing I remember of that life was being in your arms, feeling this… terrible chill coming over me."

She shivered just from the memory, and Erik's face twisted in pain. He seemed to reach for her for a moment, and she longed to be enfolded in his arms. However, Erik balked at the last moment, and fisted his hand in the coverlet near her stomach.

"I remember begging you to keep kissing me, even though I couldn't speak anymore."

Her own eyes filled with tears as she remembered the terrible emptiness that had filled her, until only his voice remained.

"As I… faded, I heard you speaking to me, begging me not to leave…"

She was in his arms abruptly, and his lips were hard on her own. She wrapped her arms around his back, holding him tightly.

After a few moments he cupped her cheek and set her away from him, brushing away a stray tear.

"F-forgive me. I-I could not help-"

Christine cut him off with another kiss, catching his lower lip between hers.

"I am glad," she whispered. "I was lost in that memory. I needed you to bring me back. I need you, Erik. Always." Christine choked on a sob, covering her mouth with her hand.

He grimaced, and set her away from him slightly. He stroked a few stray bangs away from her face.

"It would seem that we must both remember where we are now, even as we delve into the past."

She nodded lightly, and put her head back on the pillow.

"After everything else had faded away, I could hear you singing. It was… grey. There was nothing but your voice in that… void. It echoed around me, but then even that started to fade." Christine shuddered again. "And then… there was another voice."

Erik's brow furrowed in confusion, but he said nothing.

Christine gave a tremulous laugh, still unable to fully comprehend what had transpired after she had died.

"My father was waiting there to greet me."

Erik gave a startled gasp, choking on a disbelieving "_What?_"

Christine gave a horse laugh, covering her eyes as she spoke. Tears leaked past her fingers as she half sobbed, half laughed through her explanation.

"H-he was waiting there, in the emptiness. I could-couldn't _see_ him, but he_ spoke_ to me," she gasped, shaking her head at how mad the whole thing sounded. She hadn't thought of that encounter much since her resurrection. One would think that speaking to her father again would bring her joy, and while it had, the entire ordeal still frightened her. "He asked me many questions, about myself, Raoul, you…" Christine trailed off, trying to remember what else they had spoken off. Abruptly, she remembered another detail. "And Father clarified a few details for me," she added a bit crossly, giving him a slight glare.

Erik's brow furrowed in confusion as he contemplated her words. After all the excitement of this endless evening, his mind was not functioning at its usual pace. He needed to rest and recover, they both did. But Erik knew that this conversation was far more necessary to his sanity at the moment than sleep.

"What did he tell you?" Erik asked slowly. A strange feeling of guilt had blossomed in his chest, but he could not quite recall what sin he'd committed to cause it. When Christine paused a few moments before responding, his heart fluttered anxiously.

"Father told me that you and Raoul gambled on whether or not I would sing that night," Christine said, glowering at Erik as she watched her words sink in. She derived a small pleasure at the pallor which overcame his face, and the muscles flexing in his throat. Without giving him time to respond, she continued. "You decided to make a bet about where I would remain after I sang. As if my choice was inconsequential, as if my feelings didn't _matter_!"

Erik opened his mouth, but Christine gave him no opportunity to speak. "How could you do that _again_? How could you try to manipulate all of us again?" She whispered fiercely. Though she did not raise her voice, her quiet censure was more powerful than if she'd screamed.

"Christine, please-" Erik tried to speak, but Christine cut him off harshly.

"That was _wrong_, Erik. It was so very wrong." She shook her head, pressing the left side of her face into the soft pillow. "Why must you always play such games? Is the world some grand board to you, and we are all just pawns upon it?"

Erik closed his eyes and rolled onto his back, running a hand across his face and into his hair. He shook his head, struggling to speak.

"It was the only option I could see at the time," he muttered, and Christine struggled to hear him in the absolute silence of her room. "The thought of… of letting you leave with him _again_, when he deserved you far less than the previous time, was torturous."

Erik turned his head to face her again, burying his warped cheek in the soft pillow. He reached out slowly, and softly grazed her exposed right cheek with a solitary finger.

"I left you that night because," he shook his head helplessly, exhaling softly, "because you deserved the life _he_ _promised_ you. A life of riches and endless company. A life with a handsome young husband who was whole and healthy and _sane_." His face contorted into a bitter visage, and Christine frowned. "A life with babes as beautiful as their mother, without fear of sick deformities marring them."

Erik sighed heavily, and glared at the ceiling. He failed to notice that Christine's brow had furrowed, and that her eyes had drifted away from him. She stared blankly ahead, her thoughts churning with broken images.

"Christine, once I'd seen what he'd done, how he treated you, letting you stay in that unhappy existence became impossible." Erik turned to look at her face, but stopped speaking for a moment at her expression. Her gaze was lowered below his face, and her eyes were distant. She seemed to be concentrating hard on something, but he could not determine what.

Christine heard Erik as he spoke, but her thoughts had been torn from his quiet words by a simple phrase.

_Babes as beautiful as their mother. A life with babes. _

_Babes._

_Babies._

_Children. A life with beautiful children._

_Beautiful children with Raoul? A beautiful child with Raoul?_

_A beautiful child._

_A beautiful child with __**Erik**__._

_Erik's beautiful child… a child_...

Softly, Erik continued to speak, and hoped she heard him. "When he accepted my wager, it only confirmed in my mind that he forfeited any right to you, if he was truly willing to gamble your marriage. It… it was never meant to manipulate _you_. You had promised to sing, I knew, and I justified my actions to myself because…" Erik stopped again, as Christine continued to stare into space.

Perturbed, he cupped her chin between his fingers and tilted her face up. She blinked and looked at him, her eyes focusing on his own. She said nothing, but reached up and took his hand, wrapping their fingers together and tucking both limbs against her neck. Christine stared at him with an unfathomable gaze, and he swallowed once before continuing again.

"I thought, if you truly did not want me, did not want to stay, you would listen to his pleas, and leave the performance. But," he leaned his head toward her subtly, "if you sang, if you disregarded his request, it would mean that your feelings had not changed. That our story was not over."

Christine studied his face, distracted from her previous focus. He looked so sincere that she could almost believe what he said. However, there were important details he was disregarding, or perhaps hoping to glaze over.

"And yet you came backstage to my dressing room, just as he did, and tried to convince me to stay," Christine pointed out quietly. "Both of you gave me sweet words and promises in an attempt to sway me." She frowned, shaking her head sadly. "At the time, I thought Raoul simply could not bear to have me sing for you once more, and that _you_ could not bear to have me leave without doing so. If I'd only known you were simply trying to win a useless bet-"

"It was not for a useless bet!" Erik snapped, anger coloring his features. He rose up over her, taking her shoulders in his hands as he knelt above her. "It was for _you_! Why can you not see that? That _useless bet_, my words before your performance, offering you and your drunken boy enough money to keep you cozy and content for _years_!" Erik broke off, turning away again to send a glare into the rock ceiling. "I wanted you to sing because I am selfish! I could not go another year without hearing your angelic sound! But the actions I took were to benefit you! You and… and…"

Erik trailed off, a glazed look coming over his features. He grip on her shoulders slackened, and his lips parted in confusion.

"It… for you and… and…" Erik stared over Christine's shoulder, his thoughts a tangled web.

_My actions were for Christine._

_Christine and our future._

_A future __**together**__._

_A __**life**__ together._

_Together with… with…_

Christine stared at him as his eyes darted about, never truly seeing. She reached out to cup his perfect cheek, caressing him urgently with her thumb.

He closed his eyes tightly and trembled, letting out a shaky breath as he looked her in the eyes once more.

Christine swallowed apprehensively at the pleading confusion in his gaze.

"Christine, _please_." Erik reached for her again, and Christine allowed him to put his hands on her again. His long fingers slid from her elbows to her shoulders, finally coming to rest on her neck. His thumbs brushed her cheeks. "It-all these memories… they are pounding in my head like a storm. My thoughts have been uprooted and scattered. I cannot… I cannot remember everything clearly right now. All that is certain to me is that I could not let you go again. I _love_ you, Christine. My Christine!" Erik brought his face near to hers once more, and Christine parted her lips to receive his kiss.

Erik held her for some time, relishing the feel of her in his arms. One hand remained at her neck while the other sank into her rich curls, cradling the back of her head.

Finally, Christine put her hands against his chest, gently pushing him away.

He opened his eyes to see her face, suddenly bracing himself for some sign of rejection.

He wasn't prepared to see the gentle affection in her eyes.

"Oh Erik," Christine sighed, running one hand up through his hair, "you will have to explain yourself at some point, but not tonight, darling."

She leaned up and placed a kiss on his forehead, right where deformity made smooth skin.

"I forgive you, Erik, for what you did on Coney Island."

Erik looked at her, disbelief evident on his face.

"I forgive you, Erik, because I love you."

His lips thinned, and he closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

"Do not misunderstand me, _mon ange_," Christine said, cupping his cheek to make him look at her again. "My love does not give you license to do as you please," she quietly pointed out. "But it _does_ mean that you may act in error, and I will still be here, waiting for you."

She sealed that vow with a kiss of her own; a soft, chaste kiss that made Erik's heart clench in his chest.

And for all the chaos of the evening, that was enough for both lovers.

**Hope you enjoyed it! Sorry it took so long again, and I hope I added enough fluff to keep you happy! Check back for more!**


	30. The Word of the Nobility

***UPDATE 11/2014**

**This is the first significantly altered chapter. The chapters proceeding this are all revised to match the new version.***

**And now a boring but necessary chapter with everyone's favorite (loathed) fop. I was deeply considering making an awful April Fool's joke on all of you with a fake update, but I'm not mean (I'm kidding I totally wanted to). Here's a real update!**

The damn building was too long and dark. Raoul DeChagny's pounding footsteps reverberated off the walls, creating a cacophony of slaps as he bolted through the narrow hallways. He'd fled the grandiose affair the moment he'd been told Christine and _that_ had departed.

Following Christine's dramatic fall and _its_ appearance on the dance floor, Raoul had stepped away to the side to gather his head. Raoul had wanted to wrench Christine away from the moment he saw them together in the hall, shrouded in darkness. Raoul did not know why, did not know who her "escort" _was_, but he was certain, deathly certain, that Christine should be with _him_, not… whoever DesRosier was.

When he'd finally gotten her away from him, it was as if Christine's walls had started to crumble. To begin with, she had called him Raoul again, but he'd been unable to fully ascertain why she was avoiding him. Because of some silly rumors? The world was fraught with gossip and slander. That didn't mean you broke friendships over them.

No, Raoul was sure, with hardly a shadow of a doubt, that something _else_ was ensuring he and Christine were not permitted time together. That was why he felt it was time to make his feelings known to her. He thought that if Christine would just hear him out, would hear that he cared for her beyond platonic friendship, she would be able to disregard some of her qualms with their relationship. For indeed, if it was _known_ that they were in a relationship, one that would eventually reach a sanctioned conclusion, who could slander her for spending time in his company? Who could try to keep them apart? Christine, however, had rejected his confession before he'd truly even finished speaking. She'd said that she had already dedicated her days to another.

And something inside him had just… snapped.

Raoul simply could not understand how she could have another suitor. Part of his mind acknowledged that a beautiful, talented woman like Christine was bound to have other admirers. Why should the existence of a serious contender be a surprise?

Another part, a more irrational part, insisted that Christine was supposed to be unattached. She had never had a suitor before, had never even had her first kiss. The Vicomte felt as though this was a fact, irrefutable in his mind even though no one had ever told him such.

As he unconsciously tightened his grip, shaking her slightly in his mania, Raoul had seen anger and fear gleam in her eyes. She'd struggled in his arms, trying to get away from him, and all the distressed DeChagny could think was '_No! She must stay with me! She is only safe with me! I must protect her_!'

Meanwhile, the small rational part of his mind had asked, '_Protect her from _**_what_**?'

When Christine had shoved away from him, losing her balance and sinking toward the floor, it was as if a switch had been flipped in Raoul's mind. _Get away! Don't touch her! Put her away from you! It isn't your fault! Don't make it your fault! She did it to herself! Hide from the blame. Hide from the blame…_

But like a dark shadow sweeping onto the marble floors, a figure had swooped down upon her, gathering Christine in its arms and cradling her close. The dark creature had made eye contact with him then, and Raoul had leaned away for a moment in sheer, blind terror. The figure's eyes had burned, and for a moment, Raoul felt as if someone had walked over his grave. The next moment, he realized that the masked shadow had its arms around Christine, holding her gently. As if he had a _right, __a_s if he was _permitted_.

Raoul's hand had found his sword without a thought. The violent urge to rip his sword from its sheath and thrust it through the thing's stomach had made his hand twitch spastically. Before he could pull the handle more than an inch, Madame Giry had appeared, and Christine had been led away through the throng of revelers.

Raoul had stood immobile for a few long moments, hand still clutching his sword handle. Finally, he'd broken from his violent trance, straightening and moving away from the dancers. His blood had been roaring in his ears as he took the first glass of champagne that had passed him, downing the contents in one tip.

A few aristocrats invaded his personal space before the liquid had passed his throat. One man, a tall blonde with a domino mask, had chuckled loudly, giving the Vicomte a clumsy pat on the back.

"Dancing with two left feet are you, dear Vicomte?" The man's breath had wafted over Raoul's face unpleasantly, and he'd bitten back a retort on the man's sobriety. "Having a bit too much refreshment, I should say. You downed that last glass before dancing as if it were water!" Raoul had disengaged himself from the red-faced drunk, brushing a hand down his arm as if sweeping him away.

"Leave him be, Auguste. Any man would forget his steps with such an exquisite angel in his arms. Though I dare say," chortled a short, brown haired man Raoul recognized as Francois Ancelet, whose wealth came from the previous generation's success in American trade, "most might not try to drop her from heaven onto her derriere!"

The Vicomte's lip had curled up slightly in disgust at the man's vulgarity, unwilling to forgive such a reference in regard to Christine even if he was drunk. A fourth and fifth man then approached, seemingly more sober than the others, and they had formed a small arc with the scowling Vicomte. He made to reply, but was cut off by a sixth interloper.

"Look like more than a missed step to me, gentlemen." Raoul had straightened imperceptibly. Madame Giry suddenly stood to his side, her eyes expressionless and features neutral. "The lady seemed somewhat distressed, Monsieur le Vicomte. Perhaps a disagreement between her and yourself?"

Raoul had bristled, standing up even straighter and clenching the stem of his glass so tightly his knuckles whitened. "Is that how it appeared to you, Madame?" Raoul asked casually.

"Well, it appeared that she was attempting to disengage herself from your dance, yet you held her rather firmly."

Raoul had eyed the ballet mistress carefully, feeling the blood rise in his face.

The other two men had looked at him queerly, while Francois burst out with rowdy laughter. "Oh, I'll bet she was trying to appear the fresh ingénue, eh Vicomte? They always do. Must appear the innocent, uncorrupted flower in public, but comply well enough when you put Nebuchadnezzar out to grass in private."

The blonde man had laughed along with him while the other two merely gave obliging smirks, sipping their champagne.

The middle aged woman had given Francois nothing more than a fleeting glance before looking back at the Vicomte. She had said nothing, but Raoul had felt as if he were being examined and resented the idea.

"I can assure you, Madame, that there were no problems between Mademoiselle Daae and myself." A wicked thought then entered his head, one more deceitful than most. _It was her fault. She was clumsy, she slipped… she…_ "She merely slipped on the floor, no doubt on some slipped champagne or other substance. I tried to steady her, grabbing a tight hold of her arms, but alas, her balance was gone. I'm thankful for her… companion's sudden presence."

"Hmm," hummed Giry, and Raoul had wanted to shove her away for even that placating sound. "Indeed, Mademoiselle Daae's gentleman friend appeared in the nick of time, it seems." The mistress turned around, looking behind them toward the grandiose door. "It seems he is her guardian angel this evening."

"What?" Raoul had asked, confusion evident in his tone as he looked past the men. All he had managed to catch were the backs of two figures quickly leaving the main room. Desperation leeched back into the young nobles mind and with little more than a hurried "excuse me," Raoul was darting in between the dancers and crowds, rushing for the hallway. As he neared it, a hand had touched his right arm, quickly followed by Andre's face in front of his own, blocking him.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, La Daae has suffered an injury, but I'm sure she will be quite-"

"We may speak later, Monsieur!"

Raoul had hardly given the flustered man a glance as he darted out the door, only to be met with black emptiness. Heedless of any onlookers, he'd begun to sprint down the dark passages, calling out for the vanished soprano. He'd found nothing, heard nothing, and saw nothing.

At last, he came to rest in a dark corridor of the building, lit only by a few small light fixtures. Christine had disappeared into the night, and Raoul knew he would not find her again that evening. And in that knowledge his queer sense of foreboding grew fiercer still.

**Regarding some 19th****century slang I discovered, some of it would've been more limited to the poor classes, but I couldn't find a good website with "posh" slang. So there we are.**

"**Put Nebuchadnezzar out to grass" - to engage in sexual intercourse.**

**I tried to delve into my Raoul's mindset here, with limited success. I realize that he may seem presumptuous and arrogant here. Two perceptions in your mind can create a very warped viewpoint. Having one suitor remembering the lost world is risky enough. Having two, who hate each other with a deadly passion? That's a time bomb, ticking down…**

**Tck Tck Tck Tck tck tck tck…**


	31. Uncertain Trek

**Sorry about the huge delay in updates! I was recently rereading some of my chapters, and have decided that certain parts of my story need editing. I hope this won't discourage anyone, as there won't be many major changes.**

**Basically, the way I was writing Erik was not how I originally intended him to be. As a result, his relationship with Christine is not as it should be. Therefore, some interactions have been rewritten. Ex. Chapter 4**

**So, we have a shorter chapter to set up what is to come while I edit the previous chapters. I hope to have ANOTHER chapter posted before the month is out.**

***Edited as of 11/2014***

Sleepless nights occurred across Paris that evening, as party goers and revelers sauntered to their respective carriages and homes. Drunkards sang at street corners, ladies with painted faces called out from the lamps, and a stoic matron lingered in the Opera Populaire.

She shuffled stealthily along the darkened corridors, carefully seeking the passageway that would lead her down beneath the opera. She picked up the torch in the darkness, having long memorized its location on the wall. A single match was all it took to ignite it.

She walked down the path slowly, her common sense warring with her desire to be certain that all was well with her gentle hearted charge. She came to a reluctant halt on the musty stairs, fingers clenching around the metal shaft of her light source.

Hours had passed since Christine and her Phantom had disappeared from the masque, with no sign or indication that either would appear again.

IIII

Erik lifted himself from Christine's bed slowly. The concoction he'd provided, combined with exhaustion from the evening's events, rendered her unconscious quickly. Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned to kiss him one last time before her head remained motionless on the pillow.

He moved silently toward her door, deftly locking it behind him.

He paused, staring intently at the small brass key, before sliding it under the gap in her door.

He could not trust himself with such easy access to her room. Not tonight.

Rubbing his eyes wearily, he stumbled toward his own quarters.

Usually after such a night, he would simply retreat into his organ and compose until his fingers and back ached. Then he would continue to play until they were numb.

Looking at his cold, dark room, he sighed heavily before resting his back atop the mattress. It was hard and unforgiving, not at all like the soft, downy mass he'd gifted to Christine.

Erik allowed his eyes to flicker shut, dreading the possibility of nightmares after everything else.

His head was pounding, and his memories still collided in his mind.

Perhaps a remedy for himself was in order…

He'd just decided against self-medicating and resolved himself to stay in bed when a set of bells began to shake from outside his door.

Eyes snapping open, Erik quickly rolled off his bed, eyes narrowing on the tiny string of bells which signaled someone had traversed the first level to his domain. He watched the brass instruments carefully, and eyebrow quirked in interested as the next alarm failed to activate. He'd only imagined one person daring to enter his domain this evening.

_Vicomte_.

He snarled at the bells, securing his Punjab lasso around his arm. What was taking the brat so long to reach the next level? If he knew the way, if he remembered the journey he'd taken before…

Erik's eyes narrowed as a set of bells once again rang out. To his mild surprise and amusement, it was the first set once again.

_Ah_, he thought in curiosity. _It is the Madame. And she has gotten cold feet._

Smirking at the bells and unwinding the rope, he climbed back atop his stiff mattress.

IIIIII

The tunnels were exactly as she remembered them. Each was dank, dark, and laden with trip wires. She had no doubt that Erik knew of her presence by now. He would likely come to greet her if she walked any further. But a familiar trepidation consumed her, a feeling she'd grown to obey when it came to the temperamental Phantom.

She had seen the murder in his eyes at the Bal Masque, had seen the rage coiling around him as the Vicomte laid harmful hands on Christine.

To provoke him tonight might prove to be a costly error. But how could she abandon her injured surrogate daughter to the frigid catacombs with no feasible way to escape should she desire to do so?

The white noise of the tunnels echoed around her, seeming to roar in her ears. Staring into the blackness, she silently begged forgiveness from the Almighty, and from Christine, should her fear consign her little ingénue to a night of captivity.

IIIIIII

The bells remained silent for another hour, and Erik contented himself with the knowledge that the ballet mistress had scurried off home for the evening.

Armed with what he now knew, he could only pray she stayed far away from him until his mind was more at ease. Dark thoughts flicked at his brain, scratching at his self-control.

The Madame and her little brat. They were to blame. They were at fault. The Little Giry had been the one…

On and on the wicked memories flowed, like two currents colliding in a bay.

Sighing in agony, all Erik wanted from his exhausted mind was to sleep.

As if granting his wish, darkness swept over him quickly, and his dreams, much to his relief, did not plague him as they had before.


	32. First Waking

**Happy New Year!**

When she awoke, Christine found herself alone.

She stretched her arms out, flexing her stiff fingers. Out of habit, she tried to curl her toes.

Pain shot up her leg, and she bit her lip hard to keep from crying out.

Shaking, she carefully pulled back the covers to examine her foot.

The cloth Erik had used to bind it the previous evening had come loose. She winced as she carefully undid it further, exposing her tender flesh to her gaze.

The skin from above her ankle to her toes was swollen, mottled bruises decorating it.

She stifled a groaned as she dragged her foot toward her, gently touching the dark welt along the side of her ankle.

Christine hissed as pain shot up her leg again, a frustrated yell finally breaking past her lips.

Less than ten seconds later there was a pounding on the door.

"Christine? Are you well? Can you open the door?"

Erik's voice was strained as he continued his assault on the door.

"Erik, you may come in. It's alright."

There was silence outside the door, and she frowned in confusion.

"Erik? Are you-"

"Christine," he cut her off, "do I have your permission to enter your chamber?"

She hesitated, pulling the shoulder of her nightgown up higher at his peculiar tone.

Chastising herself, she called out that he did.

A moment later the knob on her door fell to the floor with a resounding _clang!_

Startled, Christine sat up straight in bed, watching wide eyed as Erik opened the door with a gentle push.

He strode into the room, coming to the side of her bed and kneeling. He was already dressed in dark shirt and pants, his boots clicking on the floor.

"Let me see your ankle," he ordered, pulling back the sheet without hesitation.

Christine blushed, tucking her uninjured leg under herself.

He ran a gentle finger across the side of her ankle, applying the slightest amount of pressure.

She bit her lip as he pressed lightly against the ugly purple bruise.

Erik sighed, and straightened.

"It is not broken. The sprain, however, is quite serious. You will have to remain bedridden."

He retrieved the dressing from her bed before striding out of the room.

Christine exhaled shakily, trying to avoid looking at her foot.

She would not be dancing or performing anytime soon, that much was certain.

Scowling, she felt a surge of resentment toward Raoul for keeping her from the stage. _ Again_.

Thumping the bed with her hand in disgust, she attempted to settle her thoughts.

Obviously, she had far greater concerns than a bruised ankle.

_Raoul_, she thought in confusion, biting her lip. _Raoul had thrown a fit because I refused him._

Despite the poor state of their marriage at the end, Raoul had never lashed out at her during their engagement. Truly, the only time he'd been firm or controlling was when he commanded her to perform in Don Juan.

Last night was, to say the least, an unexpected turn of events.

Even more pressing than Raoul, however, was Erik. Her Erik.

He came back through the door a moment later, carrying a fresh piece of dressing.

Her ankle was secured forthwith, and the covers were returned to cover her body from the chill.

She shuddered, burrowing deeper into the sheets.

"Are you well?" Erik whispered quietly, kneeling at her side. "Would you like to eat?"

She looked at him, his masked face neutral, despite his gentle tone.

She cupped his chin briefly and nodded.

"Will you join me, Erik?"

He pulled away from her, rising and striding from the room.

"I have no desire to eat."

Christine watched him go, her hand resting uselessly on the bed.

Shivering, she returned it under the covers.

She was dosing off again when Erik came back into the room, carrying a small tray.

"I have an apple and grapes for you to consume," he said, carefully laying the platter in her lap.

He stood and turned to leave, making Christine cry out.

"Please stay with me," she begged, reaching out. Her fingers scraped the edge of his sleeve. The material slipped through her fingers.

Erik stood still, fist clenched tightly at his side.

"Beloved," Christine tried once more, but Erik fairly flew out of the room, closing her door behind him uselessly.

It bounced back open, lacking the latch to secure it.

Christine tried to blink back tears and focus on her light breakfast as his footsteps faded.

She placed a white grape in her mouth just as the organ began wailing a dissonant tune.

Christine nearly choked in surprise, watching the door apprehensively.

The music, if she could call it that, did not seem to have any pattern or rhythm.

Erik, it seemed, had settled for smashing his fingers against the keys without a clear idea of what he was playing.

It sounded terrible and angry, making the tears fall from her cheeks onto the platter.

She ate hesitantly, wincing as the sound grew louder and faster, making her head pound and her ears ring.

Slapping her hands over her aching ears, Christine hunched over her knees. The platter was dislodged and fell to the floor with a clatter, the last few slices of apple and grapes sliding across the stone floor.

"Stop!" Christine screamed, closing her eyes. The music seemed to falter for a moment, but did not cease. If anything, if seemed to get louder. "Stop stop stop! Just _stop!"_

The music broke off suddenly, but was replaced by the ominous sound of quick footsteps.

She pulled her hands away from her ears, fisting in the blankets once again as he stormed into the room.

He fumed at the end of her bed, bracing himself on the wooden foot rest.

"Is something _wrong_, my dear?"

He leaned over her, a menacing look in his eyes.

"Don't you _like_ my music?"

She looked at him, and knew her lip was curled in an unladylike way.

Frankly, though, if he thought to scare her into being his little waif again, then to hell with it.

"How does that help?" Christine snapped, glaring at him. "What does pounding away on an organ do to help you? To help the situation?"

Rage flared once more in his eyes, and he was at her side in an instance.

Confident he would not hurt her, she refused to shy away.

"Do not presume, _my dear_, to understand anything about what _helps_ me." He leaned in close to her face, baring his teeth. "Be grateful that I chose to _create_ with my hands instead of _destroy_."

She moved closer to him, putting her face in his. Erik leaned back, looking at her distastefully.

"_That_ was no beautiful creation. You were simply throwing your hands at the keys like a petulant child!'

Before she could blink, his right hand had found her throat, and her head was back against the wooden headboard.

Christine did not feel pain on the impact, nor did his grip on her neck hurt.

The action, however, infuriated her.

She continued to stare defiantly into his eyes, recovering quickly from her surprise.

Erik put his face very near to her, breathing heavily.

Neither moved for a few moments.

"Is this how you mean to resolve the situation?" Christine prodded, proud that her voice shook only slightly.

Erik observed her for a long moment before his eyes fell to her neck, where his fingers still held her.

Carefully, he watched his hand as the fingers fell away.

He sped out of the room like a ghost, slamming the door once more. It ricocheted into the wall once again, causing the unpleasant sound to mask his footsteps.

The room was quiet once more, though her door was broken, and her breakfast remained trampled on the floor.

Christine watched the hallway for many minutes with angry tears wetting her cheeks.

A resolution, it seemed, would be hard won.


	33. Warden

"It will likely be swollen for at least two weeks. Dancing is entirely prohibited, and walking is to be avoided without some form of support."

His clipped, clinical tone made her heart ache, though she was used to it by now.

"Yes, I expected as much."

He gave no indication that she'd spoken.

"Your foot will be kept elevated, as it has been. The chilled cloth has helped with the swelling. It was foolish not to apply one immediately."

She nodded dully as he finished wrapping her ankle. The tea cup in her handed was full of the foul liquid he'd been giving her for the pain. She wouldn't mind drinking it if it didn't make her so drowsy. Christine had put the cup to her lips uselessly about three times in the last five minutes, hoping he would leave before ordering her to consume it again.

"Drink the tea, Christine."

Her eyes grew misty at the thought that he wanted to keep her asleep so they wouldn't need to speak.

* * *

><p>She wasn't certain how long she had been with him now. The tea had made her lose track of time, and she had no clock in her bedroom or bath chamber. She assumed it could not have been more than a day and a half, given how often she'd been hungry, but with the drug in her system it was difficult to tell.<p>

At the moment, Christine was allowing Erik to believe she still slumbered, unwilling to lose more time to the effects of his foul medicine.

Her ankle had swelled to a bulbous purple mass. The bruising went from her toes to the beginning of her calves, though she had no view of it beneath the gauze. Erik had given her an ice cold cloth before she fell asleep, but it was nearly room temperature now.

Staring miserably at the ceiling, Christine swiped her useless tears from the corners of her eyes. What good would tears do now? They hadn't moved Erik much in either life. At least, not since she'd first pulled away his mask.

Sighing, she listened to the sounds of the cavern, faint as they were from her room. The soft murmur of water was still discernible, as well as the occasion creak in Erik's foundations.

She turned her head, looking at the beautiful vanity that sat against the left wall. It was opulent, much like everything else in the room. The armoire, the bath chamber, the bed. Erik had provided her with a boudoir fit for royalty. However, given the circumstances, it felt like a well-furnished prison with only her growling Angel to serve as her guard.

She had no sooner had this though when she heard raised voices outside her room. One was low and distinctly male, while the other was high like a woman's. They drew closer to her door. She sat up slowly, eyeing the hole where her doorknob used to sit. It still lacked any form of latch, and she wondered if it was about to be flung open.

The voices remained outside her room, whipping back and forth harshly before suddenly becoming silent. The silence was her only warning before the door was opened, revealing a highly flushed and tense Madame Giry, followed closely by her erstwhile Angel. Christine watched with wide eyes as the Madame strode purposefully toward her bed, coming to a rest next to the headboard. Madame reached down, taking Christine's exposed hand in her own before facing Erik. Christine almost winced at the ferocity of her grip, and felt the slight tremors which worked their way up the older woman's arm.

"Well, since Christine _is _awake and can speak for herself, we shall discuss her situation ourselves." Madame maintain her powerful stance at Christine's side, but the young diva could practically feel the fear radiating from her. Cautiously, she looked to Erik.

Her maestro was looking at the Madame with a mix of fury and impatience, his fists clenched tightly as his body leaned forward in an attempt to charge at the woman.

"Erik?" Christine said quietly, angling her legs away from Madame Giry and moving toward the other side of the bed. Erik looked at her, eyes narrowing as he saw her attempt to leave her reclined position. "Would you assist me?" She asked patiently, pulling her hand away from the ballet mistress's fierce grip. "Seeing as we have a guest," she started, moving her healthy ankle to the floor, "might we continue this in a more practical location?" Neither Erik nor the Madame budged, staring at her as she put her swollen ankle on the ground. "The main chamber, perhaps?" Christine suggested, motioning with her hand for Erik to come to her. His face had become peculiarly flushed, and he cast a glance at the Madame. Christine could not see her mistress's face, but she had to imagine she would protest what Christine planned for Erik to do. "Help me there, will you?"

Sure enough, Christine heard Madame Giry sputter before moving to circle the bed. "Child, this is unseemly. If the _maestro_," Madame emphasized pointedly, "would simply permit us to speak for a few moments in private-"

Erik gave a low growl in this throat as the Madame wrapped her hands around Christine's shoulders, bringing her back to the mattress. Without a word, he strode forward and nearly shoved the woman out of the way. Without further hesitation, Erik bent and scooped Christine into his arms, cradling her body to his for a moment before turning back toward the door. Christine wrapped her arms around his neck and carefully laid her head against his shoulder, angling her mouth toward his ear.

"Erik," she whispered as lowly as possible, "what day is it?"

His grip on her tightened almost imperceptibly, and Christine brushed her right thumb against his pulse. His lips tightened before answering directly into her ear. "Monday. The afternoon."

Christine hummed in acknowledgement, disconnecting her hands as he laid her down on the elegant chaise-lounge. "Thank you," she muttered, allowing her fingertips to brush his neck again as she pulled away.

Her Angel did not respond, choosing instead to back away from the lounge and oversee Madame Giry as she came to rest beside Christine.

"Christine, how severe is your injury?" Madame Giry wasted no time in beginning her interrogation, occasionally glancing behind the lounge to where Christine was sure Erik lingered.

"A rather terrible sprain, Madame." Christine answered simply, pulling the hem of her nightgown up slightly to show her wrapped ankle. "Fortunately it doesn't appear to be a fracture." Madame cast an irritated glare over the couch before moving forward, pulling Christine's nightgown back over her feet.

"Then it is time you return to the world of the living. Staying here any longer is out of the question." The Madame rose to her feet again, eyes twitching toward the Phantom while she attempted to bring Christine to her feet. "You can continue your recovery under my care."

Christine bit her lip, turning her head slightly. Erik still lingered behind the lounge, out of her line of sight. "I'm not certain that would be for the best, Madame," Christine said hesitantly, spreading her fingers across the plush dark fabric of the lounge. "The situation is-"

"This _situation_ will not continue, Christine," Madame Giry stated firmly. She placed a bony hand on Christine's shoulder again. "Are you even aware how much time has passed? Now get up, and gather whatever possessions you have brought to this place. You must return above with me." She withdrew her hand, and Christine closed her eyes, folding her lips together tightly as she remained seated on the couch. "Now, Christine." The order echoed around them, waiting to be adhered to while Erik and Madame Giry both stared at her. Christine had the distinct feeling that her maestro was watching the scene with an air of detachment, while inwardly brooding. Either way, she was certain of one thing at the very least.

She could not leave Erik yet.

"Forgive me, Madame." Christine beseeched without genuine feeling. "I know that the new week has begun, but I am unable to perform with the company. The maestro has extended to me his hospitality and care. It would be rude to refuse." Resolve solidified inside of her once she'd said the refusal aloud, and she looked at the Madame's reaction through her lashes.

It was much like she'd expected. Madame's mouth was heavily lined with the force of her frown, her eyes flashing dangerously as she looked from Christine to Erik and back again. Taking a deep breath, one which Christine remembered was used to imply a heavy scolding and dozens of extra exercises, Madame curled a hand around Christine's upper arm. "Listen to me, you foolish child!" Madame Giry whispered, desperation leeching into her voice. "This is already shameful enough. If you remain absent from the company any longer, with no word or explanation, what reputation you still have will be shattered beyond repair! I forbid you to-"

"You do not dictate what I am and am not forbidden to do," Christine raised her voice slightly, allowing the authority of a Vicomtesse to emerge. Leaning away from her foster mother's stern face, she continued before the fire could burn out. "I went to you for guidance in this, for your blessing. And yes," Christine breathed heavily, aware of her chest rising and falling dramatically and her ankle aching painfully against the stone floor, "for your help. Because you are the only mother I have known. But I am no longer a child," Christine insisted, relishing the rush of power and confidence that only came with ten extra years of experience. No, she thought ruefully, despite the appearance of her body, she was not a child. "This is my choice," she stated calmly. "The managers know I was injured at the party. I can write them a note, if that would help. But this," Christine leaned down to indicate her bandage, "is already bad enough. Climbing out of the cellar will only make things worse."

The air in the cellar grew still as Madame Giry stared at her. Her eyes grew cold, staring down at Christine with a flushed face before turning to Erik. "You want her to be well? She should be among her peers, with fresh air." Madame stood her ground, breathing deeply as she stared behind Christine. Christine bit her lip tightly, waiting for Erik's response. "Have her carried back up." Madame demanded, though Christine was sure Erik heard the defeat in her voice.

Finally, Erik broke his silence. "She goes only if she chooses to." Christine could have wept with relief at the calm, authoritative statement.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry had been turned from Erik's home following a more honest apology from Christine. Her refusal to heed Madame's wishes, she was sure, would not go without a cost. The woman's hand had been resistant when Christine took it in her own, reciprocating none of the warmth as Christine gave her fingers a squeeze.<p>

When Erik returned from escorting the Madame to the entrance, he stood before Christine at the lounge. Christine smiled, gratified to see the emotion in his eyes once more.

He seem to struggle with himself, fingers clenching and unclenching as his hands reached for her only to flinch back to his sides. "I had thought," he began lowly, turning to stare off to the side, "that you would want to leave with her." He did not look at her, turning to move toward his piano. "You should want to leave by now," he glanced at her over his shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground, "shouldn't you?"

Leaning back against the high headrest, Christine gave him a small smile. Is it healthy, she pondered, or even rational, to forgive him so easily? To feel dread grow in her breast when confronted with the idea of leaving him, even when she herself had resented the imprisonment?

Perhaps therein lay the answer, she contemplated, staring off across the lake. If she had felt her imprisonment had become too much of a burden, she would have told him herself. If she wanted him gone, she wouldn't have kept coaxing him to speak with her. And if she didn't still trust him, a foolhardy, naïve trust as it may be, she wouldn't have accepted his medicine and ministrations since the Bal Masque. He wasn't her jailor, not truly. He observed the cell door, but she kept the key. She had to believe that.

"We part ways on our own terms, Erik," Christine declared quietly. "Not theirs."

Erik had no reply, it seemed, other than to collapse heavily at his organ seat. For many long moments, he did nothing but rest his fingers against the keys.

"Could I trouble you for a song, _mon ange_?" Christine inquired gently, content to remain in the cavernous room for a while longer.

Erik nodded slightly, allowing soft notes to fill the air. Christine closed her eyes, blocking out the mounting pain in her ankle.

After nearly two days of strife, she would not allow the peace to be shattered so quickly.


	34. Mistakes of the Past

**Thank you for the reviews! Glad to find interest in the story after all this time! Happy Valentine's Day!**

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><p>Erik was markedly tenderer with her after Madame Giry's departure. Preparing her a vegetable broth, he'd sat at the piano while she'd eaten, playing a medley of tunes from both his own mind and the opera. As the hours wore on he asked if she would like a lesson, though she would need to remain sitting and could not attempt anything overly burdensome.<p>

He cloaked himself under the guise of her maestro, operating with far more composure when playing that role. She responded to his persona as the dutiful student, focusing as much of her attention as possible on the scales and melodies he played for her.

When Erik finally allowed the piano to fall silent, the earlier tension replaced the music in the air. The moments slipped by slowly, punctuated by the sound of dripping water over the lake. Erik put his hands in his lap, fisting them in agitation while Christine tried to control her breathing. Carefully, she reached out to steady herself to rise from the lounge.

Like lightning Erik was by her side, wrapping her legs and shoulders in his arms as he brought her back to her bedroom. She signed contently, tucking her cheek against his shoulder. His hand secured itself around her left calf through her dress, holding her injured ankle as still as possible. Entering the now permanently unbolted door, Erik hesitated in the threshold. Christine watched his throat flex multiple times before he spoke.

"Do… is it your wish to return to this room now?" Erik questioned, shifting uncomfortably in the doorway. Christine pulled away from his shoulder, gazing at his exposed left side. Lazily, she reached for the white mask.

"I wish to be with you, Erik," Christine murmured, lightly pulling the mask away from his face. His throat clenched tightly as she lower the mask to her chest, laying it between their bodies as she wrapped her hand around his neck. "But thank you for asking." Erik's jaw clenched, his body stiff with indecision. She felt the tension in his hand around her calf, and winced slightly as the pain returned to the forefront of her mind. "Erik," Christine inquired quietly, "do you have any pain medication that won't put me to sleep?"

He looked at her abruptly, rushing her toward the bed. "You are in pain?" Without giving her an opportunity to answer he dashed out of the room, leaving her on her back atop the sheets. Sighing heavily, Christine rubbed a hand down her face, shoving herself backward so that her head could rest on the pillow. She laid Erik's mask at the head of the bed.

Nearly two days with only each other for company, and Erik had yet to have another conversation with her about what he had remembered. At times it seemed as if she were trapped with an entirely different person, one who was neither passionate Erik nor domineering Phantom, but a man more chaotic and strange than either of them. Erik had never seemed to have absolute control of his emotions, Christine mused, both at the Opera House and in New York. The turmoil of having conflicting memories could only shake his stability. _What's worse_, she bit her lip, _he does not trust me, the only person who understands what is happening._

Erik burst back into the room, carrying a small bottle and a new cold wrap. He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for her ankle with the cloth. He didn't hesitate to push her gown out of the way, sliding his fingers against her ankle to wrap it as tightly as the pain would allow. His cool fingers linger on the skin of her leg for a few moments, the pads brushing the calf almost reverently.

With a deep, pained gasp Erik jerked his fingers away, catching the hem of her gown and tugging it over her feet. Christine watch as his hands trembled, fisting in the sheet before he stood again, moving to lean over her head with the small corked bottle clasped between his fingers.

"Drink this. All of it." His voice shook with the order, the bottle hovering before her chest. He took great care to avoid touching her as she slowly reached for the bottle, dropping it into her palm before their fingers made contact. She uncorked the bottle and tipped her head forward, carefully drinking the liquid down. Without even tea to distract from the taste, it took all her willpower to keep herself from gaging. His eyes watched her mouth, a stony expression on his face as she swallowed. He paused before allowing her to drop the recorked bottle into his hand. "You implied that you did not wish to sleep." Christine nodded, waiting. "You did not ask if that potion would force you to."

Christine cocked her head slightly from her low vantage point on the pillow, gazing at him steadily. "There was no need."

Erik scowled at the blithe statement. "Why?"

She smiled, shaking her head lightly. "Because I trust you."

Erik growled, lifting himself away from her as he paced to the end of the bed.

"Foolishness. Utter foolishness. What cause have you for such a feeling?" His scornful look made her flush slightly, but he gave her no opportunity to answer. "Manipulator, deceiver, jailer. Those are what I have been to you." He turned away, running a hand into his dark hair, keeping his distorted side hidden from her. "What actions did I ever take to inspire you to put your faith in me?"

"You let me go," Christine replied softly, earning a side glance from him. "You released me when you thought it was my wish to leave."

Erik scoffed, a derisive chuckle escaping him. "Yes, yes. You were free to leave the hellish future I had planned for you." He looked her in the face once more. "Ceasing my abhorrent actions against you was not enough to warrant _trust _in you." Erik's eyes grew distant. "It didn't undo all the crimes I made against you, in your name. Fear and hatred are not so _easily_ transformed." He grimaced. "So, let us not forget to add abductor, thief, and _murderer_ to the list." Christine closed her eyes, fighting her mind's instant conjuration of Buquet's suspended corpse, of discovering Piangi had been strangled while she performed on stage.

"Are such things all you can recall, Erik?" Christine asked, pressing her palms into the mattress. She lifted herself slowly, resting her back against the headboard. Erik twitched, his hands and body starting forward as if to help her. His feet remained firmly planted on the ground. "Can you only remember the pain we inflicted on each other?"

He gave a high laugh, an almost panicked smile gracing his face as he turned away. His ran his hand through his hair again. "Only the pain. I-I _wish_ I could remember only the pain. Then this would be clear. There wouldn't be this-this-" He cut himself off, leaning over to grip the sheets in front of him. Christine watched, wishing she could crawl to the edge of the bed and wrap him in her arms. He exhaled harshly. "If it were only the pain, then I wouldn't have to remember," he murmured, sinking to his knees. He rested his forearms atop the bed, pulling the elegant covering into his fists. Christine made a soft sound, reaching her hand across the mattress. She was too far away to touch his own. "I would be free of the memory of you."

Christine's eyes widen as her heart clenched painfully. "What?" She stuttered, her throat cutting off the single word. She felt an enormous pressure on her chest.

Erik buried the right side of his face in the bed, talking to the wall to his left. "It haunts me at night, sometimes. Even before I understood what it was. At first I'd only assumed it was my wicked mind creating a fantasy." He laughed lowly. "It wouldn't have been the first time." His words confused her, alleviating none of the pain she now felt. Desperate, she pushed her legs to the left, moving her ankle as quickly as she could without crying out. Bending forward, she moved until her upper body was closest to Erik. "Now it has all returned to me, and it won't _let me be_." Creating an awkward right angle with her body, Christine placed her forehead near his. He did not react to her sudden proximity. "To _know_ what was _mine_ and what choices destroyed everything…" Erik trailed off, his voice choked as he turned his full face into the blanket. The fabric muffled the sound of his pain as the bed trembled very lightly from his shaking body.

"Erik?" Christine asked, a curious feeling coiling in her gut. His speech, though depressing, fanned the hope building in her breast. She remembered the past life all too well, and a small, mournful smile graced her lips as she understood his meaning. She reached out her right hand, fingers threading through the hair at the top of his head. He flinched notably, digging his face further into the bed and fisting his hands tighter in the blanket. His knuckles rolled under his skin, stark and whiter than his already pale hands. "My sweet Angel of Music. Nothing has been destroyed, Erik. Nothing." She spoke softly, moving her fingers minutely across his scalp.

His head whipped up from the bed, eyes burning as she jerked her fingers away from him. "Nothing? _Nothing_? Are you a fool? Do you even comprehend what you speak of?" He leaned up over the bed, pulling the sheets forward and her with them. "Have you any idea what has been done? Any idea _why_ we are reliving the last miserable decade of our lives? Or why I can only suddenly remember what you have known for weeks?" Erik hissed at her, looking like a wild animal caught in a trap. "An entire decade has been _destroyed_, Christine. Or perhaps it never existed, and my sanity is what has finally snapped. God knows it has always been strained." His eyes dropped to his waist, eyeing her left side. "But what if this is the fantasy? Did I create another world in my mind so I could forget what occurred? What I witnessed?" Erik's right hand reached out, hovering over her stomach. "I believe it. This is the last thing I can remember, you know. Trying to hold your body together, feeling your life's blood coating my hand…" He shut his eyes tightly, creating a fist over her body as he refused to touch her. "To survive without you, to feel your body grow cold in my arms-" Erik's voice choked again, his head bent as he dug his right hand into the bedding behind her back. "It would be impossible to move past."

She reached for his face, but it was as if he sensed her drawing near. He withdrew the prison of his arms, shuffling backward until he hit the vanity against the wall. Slowly, he sank to the ground, observing as she dropped her hand limply to the mattress.

"Yo-you're not supposed to be with me right now." He shook his head, leaning it back against the wooden drawers. "I'm supposed to be barricaded at my organ, writing my revenge out while you do…" he trailed off, quirking an eyebrow slightly as he gazed at her, "whatever it is you did in the months I hid." He snorted derisively. "Let the boy fawn over you and coddle you, no doubt. Let him touch you," Erik growled, raising his right hand up before his face, inspecting it impassively. "_I'm_ not allowed to touch you. Not with my face which is hardly a face at all, correct?" He met her eyes again, and Christine nearly shuddered at the demand in his eyes.

She pressed her face into the blanket, willing down the tears that sprang to life at his reminder. She took a few steadying breaths before even daring to speak. "There is nothing to say except that I am _sorry_. So, so very sorry. Even if you can forgive me I have never forgiven myself. But," she gave a high exhale, pushing her hands against the bed, "do not pretend that I fled because of your face," she ordered, raising her head to watch his expression. Despite the carefully constructed veneer of indifference, she saw the turmoil that lingered in his eyes, in the flush of his pale cheek. "I'd just watched Buquet swing from the rafters on _your_ lasso. What were the odds that it was an accident? Foolish child that I was, do not think I knew it to be you solely because only one with your face could do such a thing." She swiped at her eyes. "All his stories about the magic lasso, Carlotta's voice, yours echoing in the Opera when she was permitted to perform. It did not take any great brilliance to see what had happened." She flushed in anger. "If my words were unforgivable, then so too was that."

"Interesting," he drawled, though he would no longer meet her eyes. "And yet you never thought to ask _why_ he had to die. Did it never occur to you that perhaps I had acted to protect myself? Perhaps I even acted to protect _you_."

"When did I have the opportunity to speak with you?" Christine demanded, wiping her face more fiercely. She cupped her forehead in her right hand, letting her mind drift back to that awful night. "You-we never even met again until the New Year's Masquerade. You disappeared after you destroyed the chandelier!" Her fingers clutched at her head. "How can you possibly blame me for running? You-" The sob broke through, squeezing her throat as she remembered the terrible fear at seeing the chandelier swing toward her, "you could have killed me. And I thought-" Christine broke off, curling her knees toward her chest.

"What did you think?" Erik asked quietly. She did not bring her head up to look at him. He did not speak again, and she cupped her hand over her mouth until the words could be formed.

"I thought you were _trying_ to kill me. I-" she curled her upper body, giving him only the back of her head. "I was standing right in the path of the chandelier. Who else could you have meant to strike with it?" He said nothing for many long moments, and she buried the knuckles of her right hand against her mouth, willing herself to calm down.

"You…" Erik trailed off, his voice a raspy echo of its usual beauty. "You cannot still believe that?" Christine grimaced, wincing at the horror in his voice. "Christine? Christine, you cannot."

"What proof do I have to tell me otherwise?" Her voice had acquired a hollow tone, and she preferred that to her pitiful whimpers. "If I had not run, my life would have ended then and there." No response. "Tell me that isn't the truth?" Christine heard his breath hitch.

"It-You _did_ run but I-I never intended for it to harm you. The idea did not progress that far." He was crying again, she could hear it in his voice. "All I saw was your betrayal and I wanted-I wanted to frighten you. I saw you flee and watched the chandelier crash and it was only then that I realized. Realized what I'd almost done." He hesitated for a moment. "But you were _never_ meant to be harmed. Only frightened." Christine could not answer, the pain of that night like a fresh wound. From the night it occurred to the night she spent with him to Coney Island; they had never spoken of what he'd done. "Please, believe me. Please, please if nothing else you must believe that." Christine bit her lip at the panic in his voice. "I could never wish you dead!" She heard the movement of fabric across the stone floor. "Never! I cannot bear the thought! I cannot bear you thinking it!" He drew nearer, and she felt the bedding dip under new pressure. "Never want you dead. Never want you _hurt_. Even now you're in pain and it-it drives me…" Keeping her eyes closed, she felt the tears slip out as he devolved into incomplete sentences. The blanket pulled against her ankle. "Stop thinking it, I beg you," he whispered, his voice coming from hear her leg. "If it is unforgivable, then so be it. But never believe that I could want such a thing."

Christine opened her eyes slowly, tilting her head to see where he was. His forehead rested against the edge of the bed near her feet, his palms flat against the bed. She inhaled unsteadily. "I…" another breath, "I will believe you, then." She was not sure she truly did, but the words felt justified when his body sagged against the bed, a sob escaping him. "And though I should not, I forgive you as well." His body grew still. "I know it's useless, wishing we could simply move past those times and continue as we were." She moved her hand slowly toward his own. "There is too much pain in our hearts now. But know," she begged, closing her right fingers around his left. His hand flinched, but he did not withdraw. "When I woke in your lair, holding your mask, I wanted only to have that with you. To put the horror of that life behind me," she squeezed his fingers, "and to move forward with you."

Erik moaned lowly, abruptly twisting his hand so that they were palm to palm, fingers clasped tightly. "Tell me again," he whispered. Christine raised her head, brow furrowing in confusion at his request.

"I want to move forward with you."

"No," he breathed, bringing their entwined hands to his left cheek. "What you said before." Christine wondered for a moment, her heart fluttering as she understood what he wanted.

"I love you," she stated softly, bringing her left hand around to cup his unfortunate cheek. Her fingers were quickly seized by his other hand as Erik dragged both of her own to his mouth. His lips pressed against her fingers, each quick kiss more desperate than the last. When he was finished he looked at her once again.

"I love _you_," he breathed, releasing one hand to cup her cheek. "The world is inconsequential. I _love_ you." Christine smiled as her tears wet her cheeks anew, tilting her head to receive his kiss.

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><p><strong>So, that's progress, yeah? R&amp;R!<strong>


	35. What Haunts Us at Night

She managed to coax him onto the bed with her, leading him back until they both rested against her plethora of pillows. He was hesitant again, fingers twitching as she tugged on him. When she rested her head against the pillows, he stayed looming over her with his right elbow digging into the pillow and his marred cheek propped on his hand, gazing at her like a skittish cat.

Christine wondered again at the broad spectrum of his reactions. When their tears had dried and their breathing slowed, Erik had been content to merely hold her hand while he rested at the foot of the bed, occasionally twisting their fingers together. As the hour grew late, Christine had quietly requested his help in procuring a nightgown. He'd risen lethargically, moving to her armoire with heavy limbs. Leaving her alone with her change of clothes, Christine had worried at the exhaustion on his face.

_Have you been sleeping at all since the Masque?_ Christine had slept so much her internal clock was considerably off. But Erik… she had no way of knowing if he'd slept.

When she'd called him to come back, the door had opened almost instantly, and she'd been presented with Erik in sleeping attire for only the second time in her life. She'd felt a flush creep up her neck at the intimate vision, still queerly out of place even as she was reminded that she had once laid naked in his arms.

Erik had seemed similarly struck by the portrait they created, one that went well beyond the norm of either lives. After the Bal Masque, she had drifted to sleep in his arms, yet he had left sometime during the night. Now, he came to her again in his sleep clothes, and her heart pounded at the implication.

"Erik?" She'd called him quietly, reaching back to pull down the blankets. "Let's retire," Christine had nearly whispered. His entire body had tensed, seeming ready to flee the room before she had started to move herself toward the ornate headrest.

Now, finally horizontal and close, Christine tucked her left hand under her pillow, reaching out to take his left in her right. He thinned his lips, eyes focusing intently on her wrist peeking out beneath the pillow.

"Stay here tonight," Christine asked lowly, twining their fingers as he had done earlier. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, closing his eyes slowly. She stroked her thumb across his. "Would it be so awful?" Christine prompted, suffusing her voice with a teasing quality that did not quite manage to cover her apprehension.

Erik sighed shakily. "Awful is one word to describe it." Christine waited, refusing to give into the childish hurt that grew in her chest. _This is Erik_. "Excruciating, unbearable, torturous. You may take your pick, my dear." _And he is prone to theatrics._

"Why is that, _mon ange_?" Her voice was calm, as if discussing the weather. His fingers twitched among hers, but he did not answer. "Erik," she began gently, pushing herself closer to him, "what haunts you at night?" She brought their faces close together, close enough that she nearly felt his sharp intake of breath. "Tell me," she ordered softly. His throat convulsed again, and Christine tucked her head against his chest.

Erik disconnected their hands, bringing his newly freed fingers to cup her right shoulder. Christine took advantage of the position to place her hand over his swiftly beating heart. She felt his breath fanning against her forehead. "Must you ask questions to which you know the answers?" His voice had grown husky, the fingers at her shoulder practically thrumming with tension.

"How can I know if you will not tell me?" She whispered against him, titling her face up to look at his chin and neckline. Her left cheek brushed slightly against the soft material of his nightshirt. "Talk to me, Erik."

"What would you have me say?" He bit out desperately, bringing his right hand out from under his cheek to rest in her hair. His fingers splayed out against the back of her head. "That I dream of you? Surely you can guess I did that long before this madness began." His nails scraped lightly against her. "The only difference is that now I can remember the details. I needn't create them."

Christine smiled, fighting the blush that rose in her cheeks. She snaked her arm away from his heart and around his back, pressing her palm flat against his spine. She replaced her fingers with her lips over his heart. Erik's body stiffened, his left hand moving to embrace her fully. "I have dreamed of you as well," Christine confessed in little more than a whisper, her fingers tracing the line of his back. She felt the uneven lines that she knew lingered on his skin. Erik made a strange sound, caught between a gasp and a groan. "I remember holding you in my arms like this." Raising her face to look at him, she saw his eyes were squeezed shut. "Don't leave," she commanded, quickly kissing his chin. "Don't run again," she pleaded, sliding her left arm around his shoulder. His expression shifted, eyes drooping as he grimaced. "Let us wake in each other's arms, Erik." She leaned forward and quickly caught his bottom lip.

Abruptly, he brought his hands back to her shoulders, shoving her away from him and back onto her own pillow. She blinked at him, her mouth open in a startled "oh."

"Fine," Erik exhaled shakily. "Fine. I will stay. But, Christine, _please_," he nearly moaned, moving his hands to cup her rosy cheeks. "Don't speak of it any longer. Don't tempt the impossible."

Christine frowned in his hands, bringing her own up to wrap around his. "The impossible," she murmured, turning her lips into his left palm. "What is so impossible?" She pulled tightly on his hands, keeping the cool fingers at her burning cheeks. "Impractical is the worst of this, _mon ange._" Feeling a surge of confidence at his remembered passion, she boldly looked into his green eyes. "And if my foot were not in such a poor condition, I would prove it to you."

Erik's eyes grew very wide at her assertion, his mouth dropping open the slightest bit in his stupefied reaction. Christine felt her body flush from the tips of her toes to her forehead, momentarily aghast at her own words. When had she become so wanton?

_When I was given the opportunity to love the man I wanted for a decade,_ she justified.

"Ch-Chris_tine_," Erik breathed, forcing her back into his arms as quickly as he had pushed her out of them. "Christine, Christine, Christine." His lips cut a path across her forehead, his right hand cupping the back of her neck. "You foolish, beautiful girl. You don't know what you do to me." His lips fastened to her temple, making her fingers fist in the material of the sleepwear against his chest. "That you could say such a thing... What has become of the shy ingénue I tutored?"

Christine smiled, huffing in laughter before answering. "Well, she became a lover, and then a wife, and then a mother all in the course of a year." She felt Erik stiffen beneath her fingers. _You __**are**__ a little fool!_ She berated herself, mentally groaning. _Why would you allude to Raoul?_ Scrambling to push the conversation back into more comfortable waters, she spread her palms flat against him, smoothing the wrinkles she had made in his shirt. "At any rate, it proved to be a very fortifying experience." Erik's hard muscles did not relax against her, and she pushed forward, hoping she could still diffuse the situation. "Goodness, even if all that hadn't happened, I still lived to be thirty! Hardly an age where I might still play the blushing innocent."

Erik didn't move for many long moments, despite the calming motions of her hands against his chest. Releasing a despondent sigh, she pressed her forehead against him. "Erik, I'm sorry. I didn't think. Please, don't linger on it. We're here now, and together-"

Erik muttered something in a deep voice, so low she could not make it out. She paused, eyes darting subtly around his chest as she waited.

"A mother," he finally said, the words sounding eerie and foreign, as if he'd never heard them before. Christine did not move, an uncomfortable fear curling in her gut.

"What?" She whispered, struggling to regain her equilibrium.

"You said…" Erik broke off, putting her away from him again. She stared into his eyes, shifting uncomfortably as they scanned her face. "You said you became a mother."

Christine opened her mouth to reply, but had no idea what she should say.

"Christine!" Erik hissed, shaking her slightly. "You were a mother!"

"I-" She broke off, a vast emptiness seeming to cloud her thoughts. She'd been a mother. Hadn't she? "Yes, yes I was a mother," she observed blankly, the scene before her fading from focus as her mind turned to the life that had been erased. She had been a mother. And yet, she couldn't…

"I don't remember." Christine whispered, her hands trembling against her chest. Her eyes grew wet as she racked her brain for the memories, for flashes of a child and life she was certain had existed. Hadn't she casually acknowledged such an event only minutes ago? How could she have been a mother and not remember her child? "Erik, I don't-"

"You were a mother," he breathed, a hand releasing her shoulder to press against his eyes. "You were a mother because I… You said I was…"

His hand flew away from his eyes, his right fingers catching her chin and forcing her to look at him. His eyes were panicked, the tips of his fingers shaking against her jaw.

"Gustave." He said, his voice uncertain. He said the name again, more forcefully, and stared at her as if waiting for confirmation.

"Gustave," Christine breathed in question, trying to find some recognition in her mind. The name struck a chord, deep and moving, in her heart. But there was no face. There was no moment. Only a little tune playing softly in her head.

**So that's some plot progression that's been a long time coming! Hope you liked the chapter! Review!**


	36. Panic Sets In

**A very quick update just to keep the story moving. Once my finals are over we'll see more updates on all my stories!**

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><p>For the first time in weeks Christine awoke with a man in her bed and dried tears coating her eyes, and for several horrific moments she thought she was in Raoul's bed at his failing chateau once again. There was almost no light in the room expect for the dim glow of nearly depleted candles at the end of the luxurious bed, and the form before her lifted its head as she sat up abruptly. It reach a hand toward her shoulder, and she saw Raoul's angry swipe in that movement. Christine shoved herself backwards and away from the form with a choked gasp, fresh tears filling her eyes as she batted away the hands that tried to grasp her.<p>

"Oh God," she moaned, twisting her body toward the end of the body. "No, what happen- Don't touch me!" Cool, long fingers that felt nothing like her husband's seized her own, tugging her back toward the center of the bed. She let out a cry of agony when she tried to use her left foot to shove backwards.

"Christine?"

The trembling, melodic voice flowed over her like a salve, loosening her tense muscles and leaving her faint with relief as her strained mind moved past the pain of her ankle to recognize and acknowledge the speaker as someone precious. She unlocked her elbows and moved her head toward his mouth, inhaling a shuddering breath as she recognized him.

"Erik," she whimpered, pushing her hands out of his own and around his neck. "Erik," she repeated breathlessly, pressing her cheek against his smooth one and bringing them both tumbling back to the mattress. Erik landed with a soft grunt on his back, hands cupping both her shoulders as he steadied her above him. She gave a high gasp as her ankle flared again, burying her face against him as the tears on her cheeks became lost between them. Her legs straddled his stomach loosely, leaving her chest sprawled across his own. "Oh, _Erik_. Thank God," she murmured against his ear, shoving her hands beneath him to press against his back and press their bodies closer together. The material of his night shirt bunched and wrinkled beneath her fingers and she tugged it up and away until her arms were beneath the silk and her palms lay flat against the ridged planes of his shoulders.

"Christine!" Erik choked, hands gripping her shoulders tighter as he tried to maneuver out from under her. She paid him little heed, fastening her lips to his temple and running her nails down the length of his sides.

"Erik," she breathed again, trailing her lips down his cheek until she found the corner of his mouth. "Erik, I love you," she insisted in a high whisper when he tilted their bodies so that she lay on her side, bringing her right hand to his front and resting it against his thrumming heartbeat. Her right leg hooked around his left, leaving their bodies flush together and earning a low groan from her teacher.

"Christine, stop," he begged lowly, reaching his left hand beneath his shirt to pull her hand away. He forced her hand backwards until she rested on her back, leaving her against the pillows as he reached to flatten her leg back against the bed. "You must try to go back to sleep," he reasoned in a rush, carefully moving himself away from her. She cried despondently at the loss of his warmth. Couldn't he see how badly she needed him?

She felt his panic at her sobs as she covered her face and turned to her right side, giving him her back as she trembled. "Christine, please," he moaned, hands gentle against her shoulders again. She jerked away from his hands, bunching her shoulders as she removed her hands from her face to wrap around herself. "You cannot inflame me like that!" He said a little harshly, grabbing her exposed right hand and threading their fingers together despite her struggles to pull away. "Do you think I do not wish to have you this very moment?" He hissed it in her ear as she hiccuped pitifully on her sobs, turning her left side until she could seem him out of the corner of her eye. He buried his face against her curls. "Good God, Christine. Your ankle! Am I expected to take you and ignore the pain such an act would inflict?"

His reminder returned the pain to the forefront of her mind and she went rigid against him, fingers clenching around his own as her ankle pulsed. So lost in her frenzy of emotion and the ache in her heart, the pain in her ankle had blended with all her other agony. "Ah," she groaned, her left side tensing at the soreness.

"You see," he cried, pulling away from her in a flurry and moving out of the room before she could cry for him to stay. Christine curled into a ball, clutching her swollen limb and biting her lip fiercely until Erik returned with another cup of tea. She consumed it without protest, knowing it would likely put her to sleep. "No more hysterics, Christine. No more tears. You must go back to sleep now, and I will leave you to your rest-"

"_No!"_ Christine bellowed, throwing the delicate cup away from her as she wrapped her arms around his middle and buried her face in his chest. "Don't! Don't leave me! I couldn't stand it! You must stay!" She turned her tearstained face up to his, hating that in the darkness she could not see his unmasked face. "If-if you leave I might start to forget even more." Her face crumpled. "I don't want to forget anymore," she whimpered, her arms becoming taut around his thin frame.

"Oh, my Christine," Erik pleaded, wrapping her in his embrace and cupping her head in his hand. "My angel, please rest."

"How?" She whispered against his shirt. "How can I rest when I've forgotten my child? _Our_ child? Erik," she wept, her tears leaving ugly stains in his nightshirt, "Why could you remember him and I cannot? I am his mother!" She screamed it, too weak to fight as he laid her back down against the pillows. "Why can't I remember his face? I can only now remember how much I loved him." She reached up, her left hand cupping his mottled cheek. "It is like a piece of me has been torn away." She bit her lip, her head beginning to spin as the drug took hold. "When I lost you, there was never a day that I didn't think of you. How could I live so many weeks and never spare my own son a thought?"

"_Shh_, Christine. Hush," Erik's voice slipped into her ear. "Go to sleep, beloved. Maybe you will see him as I have…"

"I knew I was forgetting something. _I knew_." Her words were slurred as darkness swam over her vision and sleep nearly claimed her once again. "I could only see you…"

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><p><strong>R&amp;R! Now that the panic attack is out of the way we'll got to some plot!<strong>


	37. What's Left to Say

**Hey all! Sorry for the short updates! I'm really just trying to keep the story alive so I don't go another huge, unforgivable length of time without updating.**

**Bit of a warning for mature themes in this one.**

"If you become as frightfully irrational as you were last night, I _will_ sedate you. Do you hear me?" Erik's raw voice pushed into her clouded thoughts, his long fingers pulling her hands away from her watery eyes. "Tell me that you understand, Christine," he ordered in a softer voice, wrapping both of her hands in his left and tipping her chin up with his right. "This cannot devolve into madness again, certainly not on your part!" He smiled at her sadly. "I regret that if one of us must maintain sanity that duty falls to you by default, my dear."

Christine gave a small, choked cry, leaning her body forward until her lips pressed to his. "Don't say that," she whispered against him, feeling his unsteady breath on her cheek. "Don't say that anymore." He freed her hands when she tugged and she thread her fingers into his dark hair. "Your mind is beautiful," she gave him another kiss, "and musical and filled with more knowledge than I could ever hope to learn." She took her right hand away from his unblemished side to wrap it around his left fingers. "I love your mind, your spirit! It is stronger than anyone else's. Think of all that has happened in only the last few days!" Christine exclaimed, shifting them until she leaned above him, her hair falling like a curtain around his shoulders. "All the pain and confusion you've suffered, that I made you suffer," she added sadly, stroking his blemished cheek lightly, "and here you are, taking care of me when you should shun me for a liar." She cocked her head at him in morbid curiosity. "Would the old you have been so forgiving?" Erik's eyes hardened slightly, his lips pursing as his hand stiffened in hers. Christine refused to look away, rubbing her thumb across the warped skin beneath his right eye.

"No," Erik whispered, almost like a hiss. "I would not have." Christine gazed at him with the same sad expression, resigned to the answer. "Now that my head has begun to… clear," he started to explain, "I've been looking back at my actions since the night you took away my mask. Even, even _then_, Christine," his stare drifted to her lips, his free right hand rising to cup her cheek, "I was calmer than I should have been." He grimaced, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly. "I was an animal that night, frightening you so horribly. But, I can pinpoint now," he opened his eyes again, moving his finger to her lower lip, "the moment when everything changed. Just before I reached out to take my mask from you it was like an enormous weight pressed against me. All the rage inside of me just fell to the wayside." Erik's normally melodic voice was confused and dejected, his hand falling from her face to rest against the blankets. "It felt like no matter what I did, you would be lost to me. If you hadn't been so forgiving, so kind afterwards," Erik turned his head into her palm, murmuring against her life line, "I don't know what would have happened."

"Wouldn't events have carried on as the first time?" Christine questioned quietly, trying to keep her hand from shaking against his lips. Erik's stare didn't leave her hand.

"The desire to claim you no matter the cost… it had faded. Like breath extinguishing a candle. For those moments of utter defeat," Erik curled his head deeper into her palm and the pillow, "it seemed like you were dead to me." His eyes clenched shut for a second. "You _were_ dead to me. I can see it now. Kneeling with you on the cave, I was still seeing your body on the pier." He brought his right hand to her side, pressing against the smooth skin that had once been so horridly ripped apart. "It screamed at me to let you go. To never darken your life again." Erik bit his lip hard, as if in shame. "But then you held me so tightly as if… as if I had already won." His green eyes grew watery, and matched her own. "How pitiful my resolve was, even at the cost of your life!" One of her tears fell against his collarbone when she closed her eyes to take a steadying breath, and his hand left her side to wipe the drops from her lashes. "The fear faded, and _he_ returned..." Christine looked at him, catching his own tear in her hand. "But not as powerful as he had been. I had more control over myself than before. It was tenuous, to be sure," Erik added, taking his hand away from her cheek and wrapping her waist in his left arm. "What was a momentary weakness when compared to your soft body against mine? Such fears were unfounded. Still, the endurance of ten years alone and longing for you were not worthless, it would seem." His hand traced the line of her shoulder. "Like a recovering addict, my need for you didn't fade, but I don't need a dose every moment of every day." She lowered her face, tracing the pulse in his neck with her nose. "How strange it feels," he continued, "to love you in this way."

"Erik," Christine began, smoothing her hands down his shoulders, but he continued.

"My obsession with you lingers in my head, always whispering," his fingers played with the curls against her nape, "but this contentment pushes it back. Is this how ordinary men love? I wonder. Surely love in and of itself creates an obsession in the minds and hearts of those who feel it…"

Christine let out a breath of laughter against his jawline. "Careful, maestro. You're waxing poetic and making my heart ache for you." She pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw. Erik gave no reply, his breathing shaky. "I was obsessed with you, too." His body jumped minutely beneath her, and his head angled so she could tell he stared. "How could you doubt that? I could not move you from my mind after that night in the cellars. Each day I woke longing for the comfort of my Angel, and finding myself among strangers. By the time my wedding was upon me, I couldn't take it any longer. If you didn't appear before it was too late, I would go mad." Her fingers tightened over his shirt. "When I was with you that night, it was the first time I'd felt whole since Don Juan."

"That night," Erik replied, fingertips brushing against her scalp, "it would seem, had greater consequences than either of us imagined."

Christine shuddered as a chill ran through her, her left hand drifting to her empty womb. "It-learning I was pregnant," she struggled, throat clenching as the distant memory began to return, unfocused as a reflection on upturned waters, "the first thing I felt was terror. I nearly fainted, and Raoul had to catch me before I hit the ground." Erik's body stiffened. "I can see his face," she murmured, closing her eyes to concentrate on the memory she had ignored for years. "He was so happy, so proud of himself and me for being with child so quickly. The doctor said it must have been a wedding night conception," she snorted as a trace of old bitterness surfaced, "though the noble community assumed I'd tricked him into marrying me with a pregnancy. Yet after I heard the news, I spent hours gazing at my stomach, shielding it with my hand because I was so afraid. There was no way of truly knowing, but I understood my baby could just as easily be yours. The timing was too close." She huffed mirthlessly. "All their insults were completely true. I was just an Opera wh-whore. Giving myself to two men in two days-"

"_Silence!_" Erik hissed, right hand burying in her hair tightly. "Do not repeat their vile slander to me! There was no other option." Erik put his right hand beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his eye. "_I_ was to blame. You were left with little choice."

Christine grimaced. "I could have left him… I didn't have to walk down the aisle that day-"

"Your life would have been destroyed if you'd left a Vicomte at the altar. I was certain you'd go back to him and find happiness." He wound his left arm tighter around her middle. "That was the only thing that forced me away from you," he confessed harshly. "You saw the pitiful condition I was living in. That was the best Madame Giry could offer me. A life with me would have been confined to shadows and secrecy, constantly on alert and fearful that the authorities would come knocking down our door." He turned his head, presenting her with his profile. 'After everything I'd done to you, I couldn't subject you to that as well."

"It was a choice you should have given to me, Erik," Christine admonished sadly, looping her left arm around his shoulder to press between him and the bed. "How could you, who are always so calculating and thorough in your plans, abandoned me when _I _sought _you_ out? Did you think I gave my virtue to you out of pity?"

Erik swallowed, clearly uncomfortable at her candid question, but he turned back to her again. "I could not fathom it in the slightest," he confessed dully. "Had I truly cast a spell over you that forced you to seek me out? The entire evening seemed like a fever dream until afterwards, when I realized what I'd done-"

"What _we'd_ done," Christine emphasized in exasperation, pulling herself forward until she could press their smooth cheeks together. "Stop taking responsibility for my decisions. For my life! You make keep the blame only for your own foolishness, not mine." She felt Erik frown against her, turning his nose into her temple. "Now take those feelings of guilt and use them to change what happens here, _this_ time." Christine insisted, kissing his temple as she felt another of his tears slip past. "Neither of us should make the same mistakes as we did, and our lives are our own, Erik!" She pulled away, leaving both her palms flat against his shoulder blades. "There is no fear, there is no one to separate else, not unless we permit it!" She pressed an almost fierce kiss to his lips, smiling with womanly triumph as she felt his spine curve toward her. "My life is for you," she promised against his lips, looking into his green eyes. "Is yours still for me?"

Erik panted softly against her mouth, moving his hands to cup both her cheeks again. "You can even ask that?" He begged, leaning forward and tilting his head to slant his lips against hers. "My life is yours until the day I leave this world."

"Then what more needs to be said right now?" She queried softly, pressing the length of her body against his and sighing breathlessly when he turned them to angle her into the bed.

**A/N: Lots of tearshedding and rehashing needed for our happy couple to get to someplace good.**


	38. Since the Masque

**A/N: A bit of maturity again, which will probably start to crop up more and more often as we progress here. There is unlikely to be anything to bump this into the M category, however.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>The soft material of his night shirt was slippery between her fingers, and she firmly desired him to be rid of it. For someone who had lived underground for numerous years and whose hands were typically icy, the heat of his body could be felt through his thin clothing, and Christine wanted it directly against her skin. To that end, her hands left his sides and slid between their bodies, tugging at the front until his upper buttons were accessible. Erik did not seem to notice her preoccupation, thoroughly dedicating himself to pressing her against the bed while his kisses stole her breath. She started at the lowest button of his fine shirt, releasing it and then a second and third before reaching the exposed skin of his collarbone. Satisfied that the neck opening was loose, she slid her hands back down beneath his shirt at his waist to massage the hard muscles of his abdomen.<p>

Erik exhaled harshly through his nose as her fingers bunched the material of his shirt and tugged it upward, exposing his lower body to the air. "Chr-Christine," he moaned, a pleading quality in his beautiful voice as she shoved the linen upward, maneuvering it to his neck before shoving his arms away from her sides and over his head. Earning her gratitude, Erik did not protest, leaving his arms airborne and setting his weight on his knees as she pulled his nightshirt over his head. He personally ripped it from his arms, tossing it carelessly to his left before resuming his efforts to crush her body against his.

Christine smiled past a gasp as Erik moaned against her neck, his body sliding against her nightgown as his hands slipped up and down her back. She was certain his lips were leaving marks against the column of her throat, his mouth possessive as his fingers began to work at her own neck fastenings. Hurriedly pushing him away, Christine pulled the ribbons free, opening the front of her gown to his insistent mouth. She arched and gave an embarrassingly high hum as her phantom's lips traveled lower, kissing the hollow of her throat before moving to the exposed skin at the top of her breasts.

"Erik," she breathed, her right hand cupping the back of his head while her left pressed hard against his spine, "dearest…"

"_Bel ange_," he panted in response against her skin, fastening an open kiss against her left breast that made a shot of heat pass through her.

His right hand traveled down her side until it found the bend of her knee, securing his fingers there and tugging her leg upward. She gladly acquiesced, lifting her knee to leave her thigh against his side, pushing her left foot against the mattress until a sharp pain exploded from her curled toes.

"Argh!" Christine nearly bellowed, her entire body tensing and pulling away from him to press further into the bed. Her hands flew from his body as if shocked, her fingers curling into her palms as she fought past the renewed ache in her left appendage. Erik had so thoughtfully given her the tea and pain relief upon waking that she'd hardly noticed the pain could still be felt until that moment.

To his credit, Erik sprang away from her, nearly falling from the bed in his haste to remove himself. He stumbled backward into her dresser for what seemed to be the fourth time, shaking the wooden frame as he attempted to right himself. She arched her back the moment he was away from her, curling her body onto its right side as she grasped her leg and grit her teeth.

"Gah," she grunted, nails scratching the flesh above her ankle as she squeezed her eyes tight, already feeling the pain fade but loathing it none the less.

"I'm sorry," Erik gasped harshly, rising unsteadily to his feet and moving backward toward the door. "I'm sorry. Oh God," he fumbled with the wooden frame, pulling the door open gracelessly by the hole where the handle once sat. "Forgive me, forgive me!" Erik begged as he fled the room, earning a devastated stare from Christine that he completely missed.

She hiccupped as her sobs threaten to pour out, hearing him slamming around outside her room but offering no further words. She bit her lower lip as the tears started to flow, anger poisoning her head as she watch the door for her companion to return. He had not actually run off and left her alone and miserable, had he? Certainly not, she assured herself as the pain nearly left and her grip on her ankle loosened.

_He's likely gone to find that pain medication, and you are growing offended for nothing_, she counseled herself sullenly, wiping her noise and eyes as her body slumped against the pillows. _He'll probably make you go to sleep again, even though it's morning and you've the entire day to spend together_.

To her surprise, however, Erik returned with only a cold compress, climbing onto the bed without a word and lifting her gown away. He wrapped the icy cloth tightly around her bruised joint, murmuring sorrowfully words she could not make out when she gave a high wince of pain.

"It will bring down the swelling, I promise," he assured her, leaving his left hand against her calf without flinching this time. "Truly, that is all I can do for you," he nearly growled, lifting himself away from her legs and crawling toward her face. "Breathe deeply," Erik implored her, brushing her curls away from her forehead, "and the pain will fade." He leaned down to press a kiss to her brow, earning a whimper from her as she pressed a weak fist against his side. "No more tears, beloved, please," he whispered against her forehead. "I cannot give you another tonic so quickly, even one that would let you sleep through the pain. It may do you harm."

"It's alright," she assured him quietly, gliding her fingers along the ridges that lined his back. "Thank you," she muttered against his chest, giving him a kiss above his heart.

He inhaled tightly before pulling away, his face pained as he saw her expression fall.

"Let me bring you a dress, and then I will prepare for the day as well." He moved away from the bed toward her armoire, opening it and selecting a dark blue day gown for her inspection. It was the first article of clothing he'd chosen for her that was too elegant to simply wear as she lounged in his home.

"I have no desire for you to _dress_ for the day already, Erik," she said pointedly, looking at him through hooded eyes, "nor any inclination to do so myself."

Erik lowered the dress along with his eyes, pulling a hand away to press against his face dejectedly. "And yet I will, and as will you, because you cannot remain here today."

Christine blinked at him for several moments, certain she had misheard him.

"What?" She asked uncertainly, watching as his posture slumped in resignation. "Erik, what are you talking about?"

"That ballet mistress was right about one thing," Erik continued ruefully, tossing the gown lightly on the bed. "You cannot remain here any longer. Do you try to explain away your absence to the managers or anyone else, what are you going to say at this point?"

Christine clenched her jaw, mind spinning as she attempted futilely to form a believable story at the drop of a hat. Erik gave her a knowing look through hooded eyes.

"Just because I could not think of a story at the drop of a hat does not mean that you and I _together_ could not-"

"There is already a plan in place, Christine," Erik cut her off, moving to sit at her side again. He took her left hand hesitantly, gripping it lightly when she did not pull away. "But realistically, you cannot stay unseen and unheard from for another day. Even if the opinions of those pompous junkmen mean nothing to me, I won't have you besmirched by that venomous cast."

"But how can there be a plan in place, Erik?" Christine begged, taking his hand between both of hers. "The note I gave Madame Giry was deliberately vague because I couldn't tell anyone where I am. What would you have me tell them now, when I return only a day later?"

"That you were so grievously injured the physician that attended you instructed you to remain bedridden until several days had passed, but you were so anxious to return to the Opera house you have disregarded his orders and returned early."

Christine blinked, eyes drifting from side to side as she tried to make sense of his words. "What physician is that? And where would he have seen me since I've been so injured I could not be moved?"

"A local man that is willing to swear he attended to you early on Sunday morning, and after determining that your ankle was not broken, proscribed bedrest and a strong sedative to make you sleep." Erik used his free hand to lift hers away from him, standing with an air of certainty Christine could not believe.

"You still haven't provided a name, or a location for this visit, Erik." Her Angel smirked almost haughtily.

"That would be…"

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><p>"The home of Erik DesRosier, Messieurs," Christine answered dutifully, sitting with her back reclined against the uncomfortable wooden chair. They managers had not offered her a prop for her ankle, despite her saying numerous times that it needed to be kept elevated. They were too busy looking down their noses at her from their short desk to do anything else.<p>

"And… who is that, exactly, Mademoiselle Daae?" Firmin inquired mildly, hands folded lightly on his desk. Christine almost gave him a pitying smile at his overly accommodating tone, noticing the nervous twitches on his mouth and his partner's equally obvious tense stance.

"A close friend of mine, and my escort from the Masquerade, Monsieur."

"Ah," Andre noted, eyes drifting away from her as he thought back, "yes, the tall fellow with the full face mask. You both scurried off quiet hurriedly before the midnight reveal, if I recall."

"Yes, you left many patrons clamoring for another song, Mademoiselle," Firmin lightly admonished, leaning over his desk. "Always leave them wanting more, but you left them with only a single song for the entire night!"

Christine folded her lip, completely unable to determine the extent of the managers' displeasure. Hadn't they always been straightforward with their demands in the past? That had certainly been the case when they hounded her with Raoul to capture the Phantom.

"I am sorry that the patrons were left with so little, Messieurs, but I simply cannot apologize for leaving early as I did. One of your _patrons_ dropped me on the dance floor and caused me to twist my ankle." She shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat. "I am unable to walk without assistance, which I why I had to come into your office with this crutch," she reiterated, holding up the wooden support with her left hand.

Firmin's eyes drifted to her covered ankle, obscured from view by a combination of her skirts, stockings, and high shoe. "Yes, well, we can hardly fault you for that, if this fellow of yours instructed you to remain off your feet." Firmin bit his bottom lip overtly, glancing up at her face again. "You said you were in his home since the night of the masquerade?"

Andre gave his partner a wide-eyed glared that Christine would have been blind to miss, and she felt the flush creep up her neck.

"Yes, Monsieur DesRosier has a great deal of experience dealing with the wounded, although he lacks a formal education and isn't a licensed doctor."

"I see," Firmin noted aloud, though Christine was certain she didn't like what he was inferring. "It's, well, that is to say-"

"We are simply relieved you are well, Mademoiselle Daae," Andre interjected hurriedly, placing a hand on the desk next to Firmin and effectively cutting off the other man. "The rest is inconsequential. But we must know," Andre leaned over the desk lightly, turning his gaze to her legs, "when you will be able to perform again."

Christine's eyes grew sorrowful, and there wasn't the slightest pretense on her part this time. "My ankle is swollen and bruised, leaving me unable to walk from the pain. I cannot rehearse with the cast for the rest of this week, and likely not into the next. There is nothing I can do about that, and so you will have to use someone else to be the pageboy."

Firmin was fairly chewing his lip at her response, folding his hands into the prayer position and tapping his fingers together in agitation. "Hmm. That is… quite the unfortunate turn of events, Mademoiselle," he began slowly, angling toward his partner slightly. "The patrons are most desirous that you return to the stage in a larger capacity than the page boy as it is, you see."

Christine gave them a small smile, angling it into the ground. "Yes, I heard their gracious comments at the ball."

"Well, as you can no doubt understand, Mademoiselle Daae, they will be most put out to have you gone from the productions entirely." Andre tugged on his greying mustache, turning to pick through some paperwork on the desk. "It might help placate them if you were to attend some of the rehearsals this week. Simply making an appearance would reassure them that you have not been cut from the company."

Christine gaped at the men. "Why would they possibly think that?"

Firmin opened his mouth only to shut it comically with a snap, once again deferring to his partner's response. "It seems some ludicrous rumors were spread at the Bal Masque. Apparently some attendees were led to believe you were ordered from the building."

"Indeed, I heard you were chased from the lobby by an aggrieved patron who demanded your dismissal." Firmin chimed in, standing from his desk to retreat to a cabinet in the far corner. He opened it hurriedly, withdrawing an expensive looking flask. "Another claimed you stepped on the Vicomte's foot and quit the Opera then and there."

Christine could only stare at the junkmen with increasing astonishment. They seemed deceptively nonplussed by such speculation given the aggressive manner in which they had foisted her on the patrons at the ball, and Andre's own open displeasure when had she departed early. "I, well, you told the patrons the truth, didn't you?" Christine asked incredulously, dropping her attempt at formality.

"Oh, of course, of course, Mademoiselle. But still, such talk tends to linger. We wouldn't want another disappearance like that." Andre wagged his finger at her while Firmin took a healthy swig from his flask. "So, if you could find it in you to sit at rehearsal today, and perhaps confirm to any patrons who ask that you have _not_ left the company, it would behoove you greatly."

Christine could hardly refuse such a request, appalled that someone had turned her injury, which hadn't even been her own fault, into a story to stir up the patrons. It was too ridiculous for words. "Certainly, Messieurs. I will attend the morning rehearsal at the very least. If my ankle does not pain me greatly, I will remain for the day." Though she was certain Erik would not like that at all.

"Excellent," Andre nodded approvingly, marching forward to open the office door. "We knew we could count on you, Mademoiselle." Firmin darted forward to help Christine to her feet, easing the crutch under her arm with murmurs of gratitude and praise that sounded eerily similar to how they treated Carlotta.

When she moved into the hallway she saw her ballet mistress still waiting there a little ways from the door. Hobbling on her crutch toward Madame Giry, she smiled gratefully when the woman gave her additional support.

"Have you appeased the managers?" Giry asked without preamble, locking her arm around Christine's shoulders.

"Yes, Madame," Christine answered demurely, uncertain of how easily to proceed with her foster mother after their last argument. "They only asked that I attended rehearsals a few times this week to ensure the patrons see me."

The Madame scoffed. "That won't help your recovery in the slightest, which _should_ be at the forefront of their minds if they want you onstage again. We must keep that ankle elevated, or the swelling will never go down."

"I know," Christine muttered miserably, "but they told me about the rumors that were spread about my injury at the ball. Who said such things? Was it Carlotta?" That had been the first thing Christine assumed, given the diva's self-righteous anger at being usurped.

"Yes and no," Madame Giry answered as they headed toward the stage. "She no doubt instigated some of it, but the stories were flying from every mouth by the night's end. The Vicomte's behavior certainly didn't help anything."

Christine glanced at the instructor out of the corner of her eye, unease growing in her stomach. "You mean his anger during our dance? Or letting me fall?" Madame Giry's mouth tightened, and Christine let her head tip back as she closed her eyes in resignation. "What else did he do? I know he ran after Erik and I-"

'That is precisely it," Giry interjected, shifting Christine higher up. "He made a scene after you left, barreling down the hallway like a madman. I'd been talking to him just before, and he was telling some other gentlemen that _you_ were responsible for the fall, when anyone who'd been watching could tell it was his fault for grabbing you like that. And then to bolt out the door after you," Madame Giry pause for a moment, shaking her head in agitation. "The man was positively incensed when he returned to the party, glowering at every corner before leaving himself. You are lucky the maestro took you away so quickly, or it's likely he would have involve you in his unseemly behavior."

Christine made a nervous hum in her throat, folding her lips tightly before replying. "He asked me to spend more time with him. He said he wanted to further our acquaintance. I told him that I could not, that I had already accept the company of someone else. That was when he became so irate."

"Entirely inappropriate," Madame Giry chided, though Christine understood it was not toward her. "He'd always seemed like such a level headed young man, and I certainly wouldn't have expect him to do you any harm."

Christine almost responded, almost gave a deprecating laugh, when Madame Giry's grip on her shoulder tightened. Alarmed, she looked at her foster mother, who brought them to a sudden halt, staring blankly down the hallway. Christine followed suit, and felt the blood drain from her face at the figure standing near the entrance to the main stage. He strode forward purposefully upon seeing them, he gaze hard and determined. Christine flinched in Madame Giry's arms, leaning away and wishing to flee this latest confrontation.

Finally the man stopped before them, his eyes only on Christine as she swallowed uncomfortably, calling on the strength that had come to her upon returning to this long ago year.

"Good morning, Monsieur le Vicomte."

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><p><strong>AN: Her ankle is such an effing cockblock I want to rewrite it out of the story. Ah well. Poor girl can't catch a break with all these demands in her life. Update soon!**


	39. Bolt From the Blue

Christine stiffened in Madame Giry's arm at the wild look in Raoul's eyes. He had barely made his greeting before he reached for her free right arm.

"Good morning, Christine," he answered hastily, closing his fingers around her forearm. "Come with me. I must speak with you."

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" The ballet mistress protested loudly, keeping her grip on Christine's shoulders firm. "Take your hand away from my daughter," she ordered in her commandeering voice. Christine spared her a nervous prayer as Raoul turned his narrowed eyes on her. "Christine is injured, and manhandling is only going to worsen her condition."

Raoul took a deep breath, closing his eyes as his shoulders rose with the action. He did not remove his hand.

"I have much to discuss with Mademoiselle Daae, Madame. You may proceed to the stage."

Christine gasped softly at his tone, watching Madame Giry turn red at the dismissal. Raoul had never spoken to Madame Giry so disrespectfully before. It had certainly never happened at the Opera house, though she could not say for certain how their interactions had gone in New York. His sense of urgency was palpable, and she tugged against his grip subtlety. He felt the movement, and reset his fingers.

"I will _not_ leave my charge unchaperoned while she is in pain, Monsieur, so you may accompany _us_ into the auditorium if you insist."

"No, Madame," Raoul replied with the first touch of hostility. "You will leave us and proceed to your duties. What I must discuss with Christine is our affair, and private."

Madame Giry opened her mouth to retort, eyes blazing, when Christine belatedly realized she had no cause to stay silent.

"There is _nothing_ between us that is private, Monsieur le Vicomte," she interjected with a false calm, tugging again on his hold more forcefully. "And I have rehearsal to attend."

Her arm finally came away from his hand, though Christine did not doubt it was only because he'd chosen to relinquish his grip. Her confrontations with Raoul seemed so long ago now after everything she had remembered with Erik. One thing that lingered in her mind, however, was how intractable he had become in both mind and body.

Raoul rolled his shoulders in aggravation, thinning his lips as he looked at Christine with displeasure. Raoul was always stifling when he was in a mood, turning smiles to tears with a singular glare. That was another aspect of her marriage that she remembered too well, having received his irritated stares herself and seen them directed at her baby far too often-

Christine inhaled sharply when suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, an image exploded in her mind; a little boy in fine clothes, rushing to his mother for a hug. Her baby, her Gustave, crying and asking his mother why his father didn't ever play with him, why his father didn't love him. His blond hair and his blue eyes, exactly like hers, brimming with tears filled her mind so abruptly she nearly toppled Madame Giry over as she staggered; her beautiful son, whose face she could not recall until that moment in the dim hallway with Raoul.

Raoul reached forward immediately, gripping her now with both hands around her waist as he hoisted her out of the ballet mistress's startled grip and against his side, leaving her head spinning. The men and women from various parts of both her lives gave way to the remembered entreaties of her only child. The seconds ticked by slowly as she tried to right herself in Raoul's arms, a swirl of old emotions causing the world to shift in slow motion.

She had abhorred Erik for many weeks after he had abandoned her a second time, mentally reviling him as a scoundrel that had taken her virtue and disappeared without a word as if she was some tart to use and leave behind. When morning had come and her wedding with it, she had clung and loved Raoul as much as she was able, delighting in his easy smiles and demeanor. That was true. Erik had abandoned her and unwittingly denied his child whereas Raoul had been a foundation of sweet affection after her heart was broken again. Yet if her Angel was to be believed, if she was to rely on what she'd come to believe for nearly ten years, Erik had left out of love; a love so profound that he'd been unable to contemplate the possibility of making her miserable with him when a wealthy, handsome nobleman wanted her.

That handsome nobleman was trying to scoop her into his arms at that very moment, his left hand drifting behind her legs to bend her knees and lift her into his embrace.

This man, _this_ man, had been the cause of more pain to her and her son than she could stomach at that moment. By the time Gustave was a toddler, Raoul had already started to resent his choice of wife and turn on her. Sweet smiles and walks in the park with their son had become cynical smirks and barked orders for their boy to be silent. Erik had abandoned a child without knowing Gustave existed. Raoul had turned on a child he'd fully believed to be his.

Bitterness, the like of which she'd been trying very hard to repress in both this life and the last, surged forward with an enormous helping of maternal love as she shoved away from him. Her hands pressed against the top of his chest, palms flat as she pushed backwards toward where Madame Giry was fussing behind her.

_Oh yes_, she remembered fiercely, keeping her wide, venom-filled eyes on the dark carpeting beneath their feet. Raoul had never once doubted Gustave's paternity before Coney Island. In all his drunken rages, in all their fights about her career, her behavior, his position, his family, he had never once thrown that charge at her. To look back on it now, she knew he would have done so. It might have taken several strong drinks to force the words from his mind and into the air, but he'd had plenty nights that met that requirement. Instead, he'd let his disappointment in their marriage fill every aspect of his life. And the poison was born of foolish, ridiculous reasons such as the noble community's inability to accept her when all along she'd given him a true reason to loathe her through her infidelity.

She lifted her head to stare at him as he called her name again, tightening her face and schooling her features when he furrowed his brow and stretched out his arms in an attempt to support her.

Hadn't she tried to be patient with him before now? Hadn't she given him placating smiles and assurances that he was her dear childhood friend? Hadn't she tried over and over again to remember that this Raoul, this young Vicomte, was _not_ the callous, quick-tempered man that he would become if she wed him? That he was guilty of no harm to her before now?

That patience was depleted, replaced by a bone deep despair that mourned, but could not forgive. How could she ever be pleasant to him again after remembering the hurt and tearful words of her son? She had pushed aside Raoul's cruelty to her, taking all the blame and punishment as her due for her lie to him. But he hadn't known of that crime to justify punishing her, and he had dared to make her child feel insignificant and alone when Gustave had been guiltless of everything. Her throat became clogged as she stared at Raoul's young face, wishing both to scream at him for his awful behavior and weep that such a kind and heroic heart could become so hard.

"Christine," Raoul began, reaching for the free hands hanging taut at her sides, "this is important. Please, Little Lotte, come with me to my carriage and I will escort you to a doctor-"

"No," Christine answered tremulously, pulling her hands swiftly away from his and placing them palms forward in the air. "I need nothing. A doctor has already tended to my ankle and proscribed rest. The only thing I require now is a chair and place to rest my leg." She reached back hastily and found Madame Giry's arm, tugging the old woman forward to support her side again. Giry reached down and picked up the discarded crutch, giving it back to Christine with a baleful glance at the Vicomte. "If you will excuse us, Vicomte de Chagny."

Christine gave him little opportunity to respond, pushing past him with Madame Giry too quickly to entirely avoid a stab of pain in her ankle. The ballet mistress whispered encouraging words as they made their way together toward the stage, hearing the thoroughly annoyed Raoul moving not far behind them. Christine's hopes of avoiding Raoul for the duration of morning rehearsal were bolstered when Madame Giry took her backstage, supplying her with a chair and ottoman to prop up her foot and observe the performance from the orchestra pit. Raoul did not even seem to notice their entrance into the sparsely populated lower section, and she saw him sitting red faced among a group of other gentlemen.

Christine breathed a gusty sigh of relief as the music began to play, casting her eyes toward the rafters as she looked for the phantom. Her eyes were misty and she blinked harshly, trying to force back the angry tears that Raoul's presence now conjured. She saw no movement from Erik, and after an hour had passed by with Carlotta's warbling and Reyer's orders she still saw and heard nothing. A notion entered her mind with a sickly shiver as Christine remembered the last time Erik had hid from her gaze at rehearsals, and she carefully turned her head toward where Raoul was still sitting with his peers.

Her stomach plummeted to see him leaning forward with his hands clasped on the seat before him, eyes fixed on the cables and catwalks above the stage.

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><p><strong>AN: Sorry to everyone who expected more from that confrontation. Rest assured, Raoul is not done yet. I just want to keep the updates coming more frequently. Thanks again for all the kind reviews! They really help inspire me to keep writing!**


	40. Careful Words

**A/N: Wow. First of all, thank you all so much for the reviews after the previous chapter. They were all incredibly kind and motivated me to crank this next one out even faster. I really appreciate the questions you post so I know what the readers still want to know and whether or not they are predicting what will happen.**

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><p>"Christine, all I want is a chance to speak alone. Why is that so abhorrent to you?"<p>

Christine folded her lips tightly at the hurt confusion on her former husband's face, looking for all the world like a man being kicked while he was down.

_Not that he has any true cause to feel that way_, she reminded herself. She had done nothing wrong, and rejecting a man that she could not love was not cruel. If anything, it was more merciful than what she had done to Raoul the last time.

"_Please_ understand, Raoul," Christine began quietly, not even bothering to use his title. It would only serve to irritate him, and for the moment he seemed to be nothing but dejected. "The entire cast thinks you and I are in a… that we know each other intimately," she finally pushed out, noting the displeased quirk of his mouth. It almost made her smile to remember his reaction to those rumors. If nothing else, Raoul had hated to have her name slandered at the Opera house. Though then it had probably had more to do with protecting her from the consequences of an alleged madman's obsession. "Every time we are seen together alone, it only makes the gossip worse. Do you know how many girls whispered that _you_ gave me my masquerade gown? Don't you see what that looks like?" Christine allowed her voice to sound pleading, her genuine aggravation with the catty remarks coming into play.

Raoul rubbed the side of his neck, casting his gaze out over auditorium. Christine knew that many dancers still lingered on stage with Madame Giry, giving her the confidence to talk to Raoul without fear of either a scene or overly salacious rumors.

Finally, Raoul let out a deep sigh and motion to the plush seats to his right. "Can we simply speak here, then, Little Lotte? The last thing I want is to expose you to such venom."

Christine smiled in relief, nodding lightly and moving to sit one seat away from him with her hands resting carefully and obviously in her lap. Raoul seemed momentarily annoyed at the distance, but he shoved it aside, settling down with his hands clasped between his knees.

"There are many things I wish to speak with you about," Raoul began, turning to face her. She let herself be moved at the clear remorse in his eyes, though a dark part of her heart remained like a stone that would never break for him again. "But first, I must apologize for my behavior at the masquerade." His blue eyes drifted to her covered ankle. "Are you truly alright? You don't need to see a physician?"

"No," she assured him, waving her hand in front of her. "There is nothing to be done but keep off of it until the swelling goes down."

"I see," he murmured. "Well, in any case, I am sorry you were hurt."

Christine stared at him, eye brows furrowed slightly. This was familiar too, and not in a pleasant way. Raoul had often been apologetic that she was hurt. He had rarely apologized for being the one to actually harm her.

"More than that, Raoul, you ought to tell me why you behaved so oddly that night."

Raoul lifted his head up, looking at her with a strange expression.

"How was I odd?"

Christine gaped at him. "How-? Raoul, you grabbed me and started shaking me. You started saying nonsense about who I was meant to be with and-"

"Because you _are_ meant to be with me, Christine!" Raoul insisted loudly, earning several looks from nearby performers and Christine's ire.

"Hush, you are drawing attention to this!" Christine ordered sharply, looking around uncomfortably. "If you cannot remain civil then I am leaving."

Raoul growled in frustration, tugging on his dark blue cravat. "This is why this conversation was best conducted somewhere private."

"Nothing you have just said to me gives me any inclination to go somewhere alone with you," Christine retorted calmly, edging away from him in her chair. "I am sorry if this hurts you, for you are my friend, and to my mind you always have been. But I have never done anything to make you think that we are-"

"And that doesn't make sense!" Raoul cut her off again, leaning toward her with his hands clasped on the chair in front of her and the arm rest near his own spot. "You and I _do_ need to spend time together. If you would just let me take you to dinner, or lunch tomorrow, or to tea with my parents, I'm sure whatever qualms you have will vanish."

"I don't have any qualms regarding us, Raoul, except those that you have given me!" Christine declared, leaning fully against the far arm rest. "My feelings for you are quite plain." Though she could not tell him how deep or complicated the reasons behind them were. "You and I are childhood friends. I have fond memories of you, and wish you nothing but happiness in the future. But _we_ do not have a future. At least, not the one you seem to desire," she looked down as she spoke, not wishing to see either the stubborn set of his jaw or the hurt should he accept her words at last.

"Tell me then, Christine," Raoul began carefully. Christine's eyes drifted to her left in his direction. His tone had changed and acquired a suspicious edge. "Are these your feelings on the matter, or _his_?"

Christine turned to look at him slowly, desperately trying to conceal the panic that was bubbling inside her again.

_This_ was why she had feared speaking to Raoul. After the tumultuous weekend with Erik, after his abrupt recovery of his lost memories, she now sat in terror of what Raoul was about to reveal.

"His who?" She asked with an appropriate amount of bemusement, fisting her right hand in the skirt behind her leg.

"That man you went to the ball with. He's the one telling you not to see me, isn't he?"

Christine inhaled slowly, daring to hope he was only talking about Erik from the DesRosier persona and praying he could not read the tension now radiating from her and realize that she also knew more than she was letting on. What could she say honestly? Yes, Erik had demanded that she stay away from Raoul, but she had complied only because in this life she agreed.

"My escort…" Christine trailed off, unable to lie straight to his face and claim that her mysterious masked gentleman had nothing to do with them. He had everything to do with them. "I will not deceive you," she answered with a heavy sigh, looking into his eyes and knowing she would crush the triumph that grew in them. "My escort was not simply my companion of the evening. If you remember, I told you at the ball that there was another man that was courting me." She ignored the agitated shake of Raoul's head, as well as his scoff. "That was Monsieur DesRosier. And yes, he has asked that I not see you privately, because-"

"Because he knows that we share a bond that he cannot overcome, Lotte! And you're letting him manipulate you!"

"Stop interrupting me!" Christine demanded, fighting the urge to stamp her foot. "Anyone in this theater can see that you want more from me than friendship. Any suitor would be uncomfortable with that! It's not-not _manipulative_ or unnatural to ask a woman to refrain from behavior that makes her look unfaithful!" If she had accepted Erik into her life the first time, or any other man, it was highly likely that they would not have appreciated a rich, affluent Vicomte taking up her time. She could not even point out to Raoul that he had grown very possessive of her during their marriage. "And so that there are no misunderstandings between us, _I_ have assured _him_ that you are not his rival for my affection."

Raoul was growing angry. She could see it in the clench of his fists, the white of his knuckles. "It would not be a question of _rivals_ if you would accept me! I don't understand this... reticence in you. Your face lit up like a star when I came to visit you in your dressing room after your debut! You embraced me and positively glowed with happiness," Raoul leaned toward her again, coming out of his chair to crouch on the ground. "You cannot ask me to forget that now. _Or_ to forget how fearful you became when I asked you to supper!"

"We have _had_ this conversation, Raoul," Christine sighed, dropping her head onto her propped right hand. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, wishing away the awful headache flaring behind her eyes. "I was exhausted. All I wanted was to rest. All I want _now_ is rest. So please, let me go to my room so I can."

Raoul remained silent for many moments until he muttered something under his breath, causing Christine to pull her head out of her hand and stare at him. "That dressing room," he stated in a scornful tone. His expression was dark, and that victorious gleam was back. "Who is your Angel of Music, Christine?" Raoul inquired quietly, turning away from her to peruse the catwalks again. "Or would you like me to forget that part of our conversation as well?" He met her eyes again, and she felt the blood drain from her face. "Better yet, why don't you tell me what you know of the Phantom of the Opera?"

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><p><strong>AB: Okay okay, I know. It was short. But what can I say? I was inspired. And I like mini-chapters with teeny tiny cliffies. And I like tackling one issue at a time.**


	41. The Inquisition Begins

**Thanks again to everyone who has followed this story! It's always amazing to see how many people want alerts for it!**

"What are you speaking of now?" Christine tried to ask with a bemused expression, fighting the furious pounding in her heart and head that urged her to bolt before things became entangled beyond repair.

"Who is he, Christine? The man you call your Angel of Music is the Opera Ghost, isn't he?" Raoul urged, reaching forward to take her hand. She pulled it away, cupping her neck with her left hand and placing her right against the seat rest. Her headache was growing worse, and her chest had grown overly warm. "See how frightened you are!" Raoul declared, coming to kneel directly before her and crowding her far too closely. "The mere _mention_ of him inspires terror in you!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Christine insisted in a high pitched voice, wishing she had moved out of the chair when she had the chance. "Move away from me, Vicomte. This is unseemly-"

"_This_ is what is right, Christine!" Raoul contradicted her, placing his arm on the seat behind him so that his body blocked the view of the stage. "You have been alone here for too long, and I was remiss in not seeing it sooner." Raoul shook his head self-deprecatingly. "Forgive me for not realizing your predicament sooner. I should have made the connection the first night you told me of your 'angel.'"

"You are not making any sense, Raoul," Christine begged, her eyes drifting upward fleetingly for a sight of Erik before snapping back down, and she despaired to see Raoul meet her eyes again knowingly.

"Even now you glance around so fitfully. Does this fiend never take his eyes off of you?" Raoul clearly intended his voice to be appealing, comforting even. His face was earnest in its concern, his eyes bright and focused as he watched her intently. "How long has he been following you?"

Christine snapped her eyes to his, her entire body heated in anger and apprehension from Raoul's assertions. What could have prompted Raoul to ask about the Phantom? There had been no incidents while Raoul was here, no threatening letters that she was aware of, and certainly no deaths to warrant his suspicions.

"Raoul, _you_ are the only one who has shadowed my steps as of late," she bit out, wrapping both sets of fingers around the edges of the armrests. She lifted herself firmly to her feet, startling her old friend from his awkward crouch and nearly onto his rear. She stepped hastily away from him to her right, keep her left ankle aloft as she held herself up on the chair in front of her. She backed away several steps while Raoul regained himself, intent on crying out and bolting for the main path down the stairs if he came near her again. "You behaved terribly toward me at the masquerade, caused me to twist my ankle, and have yet to even apologize for it." She made her accusations around the tightness in her throat, hating the way her body had begun to tremble.

"Do not change the subject, Christine!" Raoul ordered, an echo of his former self coming out in force. "And stop fighting me! Whatever hold he has on you, break it! Tell me who this devil is and where I can find him, and I will inform the gendarmes. He can be dealt with in a matter of-"

"_I_ _do not know what you are talking about!_" Christine almost screamed, feeling as though she were suffocating in her corset. "There is no Phantom of the Opera!"

Later, when her mind was not smothering with panic, she would acknowledge the absolute irony of the situation.

"You're right," Raoul snapped back, rising to one knee as he put his arm back on the chair. "There is no _phantom_," he agreed, hoisting himself to his feet. "But there is a man skulking in this Opera under the guise of a specter, frightening the workers and violently assaulting stagehands!"

Christine's mouth opened in disbelief, unable to form a sentence for a moment before comprehension dawned.

"You're speaking of Buquet," she muttered quietly, bringing her right hand to massage her forehead again. The merciless pulse behind her eyes was growing unbearable.

"You know what I'm talking about," Raoul stated authoritatively, a tone that had once prodded her to take the stage as Aminta against her better judgment. Instead of also reassuring her that he would make everything alright, now it simply filled Christine with dread. "You give away so much to me simply in your reactions, Little Lotte," Raoul told her knowingly, taking a cautious step forward that drove her back again.

Christine fought to keep the sneer from her face as his presumption caused her ire to flare again. Raoul had never been overly perceptive about her reactions, about what was truly going on inside her head. If he had been, he would have seen her growing misery after Don Juan, would have understood she had hid her engagement ring out of more than apprehension, had resisted his plans for the Phantom from more than just fear. Perhaps he would even have understood that it was him she feared now, not the man whose very existence he resented.

"Of course I know what you're talking about," Christine cried, taking another step toward the center of the auditorium and glancing quickly toward the stage. To her immense relief, she saw Madame Giry watching her, and beseeched her with her eyes to aid her now. "You think that man's outrageous claims didn't spread around the Opera? Do you think anyone _here_ was actually foolish enough to belief him?"

She saw the insult hit its mark as Raoul's expression darkened, his left hand gripping the headrest in a viselike grip. She felt a familiar warning go through her at the movement, a phantom fist circling her upper arm and shaking her as her enraged husband leaned over her.

"Buquet is a _drunk_, Raoul," Christine said scornfully, remembering the awful man and his accusations. "A drunk and a lecherous old liar." Christine winced as her ankle was jarred by the side of a chair. "Did you hear the accusations he made about _me_ as well, _my friend?_" Raoul paused his approached, lips tightening at her emphasis. The way his eyes shifted over her face almost uncomfortably told her he knew precisely to what she was referring. Christine scoffed, but it came out almost as a squeak. "So you believe the revolting lies of a disgraced stagehand that besmirch my good name, but not me?" Christine shook her head as she finally reached the main path, turning so that she walked down it backwards. "That tells me all I need to know about what you _think_ you know, Raoul."

"I would never hold the despicable behavior of a fiend such as the Phantom against you, dear Christine," Raoul assured her calmly, his eyes never shifting from her face. She felt a blush creep up her neck at his intense stare. "Any woman would be misled by such a dastardly character. But I'm here for you now," he persuaded her with a placating smile. "Nothing can harm you."

Christine gave a short grunt of disparaging laughter. "No one here has ever harmed me, and no _Opera Ghost_ has used me. Buquet's vivid imagination-"

"Buquet's injuries were not figments of his imagination."

Christine brought herself to an abrupt halt, staring at Raoul with wide eyes.

"You _saw_ him?"

"_Qui_," Raoul did not let her move away any further, coming to stand right before her in the aisle. "I met him while he remained at the Opera when his claims of an assault were being investigated. His face was bludgeoned and his hands were shredded open. And around his throat," Raoul leaned in close, too close, "was mottled and raw from the rope that had been used to strangle him." Christine's own throat swelled closed, his proximity driving her mad as her feet remained frozen on the floor. "And he told me the most peculiar tale when the managers expressed their doubts. I confess, at the time I didn't give it much thought. But now, I cannot help but wonder if he had been telling the truth." Raoul stood high above her, the incline of the aisle making her feel even more vulnerable before him. "He said the phantom was prowling around the scaffolds and when Buquet got to close, he knocked the man onto his back and beat him with a bottle before trying to strangle him with a rope. The injuries certainly supported that claim, as did the swelled welt around his neck." Raoul's eyes narrowed again. "When I asked her about it yesterday, even your friend Mademoiselle Giry said that only the Phantom has been said to carry a lasso, and that he uses it to suffocate those around him."

"If there is a phantom stalking the performers then why haven't there been more incidents like that!" Christine threw back in his face, placing a hand against his chest and attempting to shove him backwards and away from her. She wilted when he reached up to snag her fingers in his, holding her hand between their bodies. The gesture made her flinch instinctively, turning her head to the left.

"How should I know the answer to that? Perhaps the cur is simply growing bolder as time wears on with nothing done to stop him!"

"Nothing has happened at the Opera since Buquet was fired!" Christine finally shouted, tugging on his grip and wincing highly in frustration. "Perhaps you should look to him for causing trouble, and not wild ghost stories!"

Raoul's expression turned almost sardonic, and she grit her teeth and frantically wondered where Madame Giry, where _Erik_, where anyone was who could help her. Why wasn't anyone interfering yet?

"He didn't try to hang _himself_, Christine. Don't be ridiculous-"

"Let go of my hand-"

"No, Little Lotte," Raoul protested, moving to bring her still captured hand to his cheek. The contact sent a shiver up her spine, and she twisted her arm to pull away. Raoul's face remained determined, and he released her to wrap his hands around her arms. "I will not allow you to wallow here under his power. You needn't fear him any longer. I will take you far away from this place, and we can be free of whatever troubles he has brought you-"

"Monsieur Le Vicomte!"

Christine nearly sagged with relief as Madame Giry placed her long fingers around her shoulders, pulling her away from the nobleman with ease as he snapped away from Christine. She nearly fell to the floor from stress as the Madame wrapped one arm tightly around her to keep her upright, guiding her carefully away from the red-faced Frenchman.

"That is quite enough, Monsieur. You have upset my charge, and she is injured. We are taking our leave now."

Raoul's lips contorted as he watched Christine turn away, wrapping her left arm around Madame Giry and using her for support as her ankle continued to protest each jostle.

"We aren't done with this, Christine," her stubborn husband called from behind them, his words followed by the clear sound of footsteps marching up the path to the main doors. "I _will_ uncover what is happening to you!

She felt herself begin to grow unsteady in Madame Giry's grip, her good ankle bending as her knees began to collapse. Her legs completely failed her as they moved into the corridors and out of sight, her last conscious decision a breathless plea for a different man to come after her before the dim gas lamps became clouded with darkness.

**A/N: Conceal, don't feel, Christine. Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know…**

**Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! More to come soon! Sorry for another short one. Please review and let me know what you thought, good or bad!**


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